VII

  The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retiefs face.

  “Keep your hands in your pockets, Chip,” he said. “Numb hands won’t hack the program.”

  “Yeah.” Chip looked across at the tank. “Useta think that was a perty thing, that Resartus” he said. “Looks mean, now.” “You’re getting the target’s-eye view,” Retief said. “Sorry you had to get mixed up in this, old timer.”

  “Mixed myself in. Dum good thing, too.” Chip sighed. “I like these folks,” he said. “Them boys didn’t like lettin’ us come out here, but I’ll give ’em credit. They seen it had to be this way, and they didn’t set to moanin’ about it.”

  “They’re tough people, Chip.”

  “Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain’t it, Mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin’ high on the hog. Now we’re right close to bein’ dead men.”

  “They want us alive, Chip.”

  “It’ll be a hairy deal, Mister,” Chip said. “But t’hell with it. If it works, it works.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I hope I got them fields o’ fire right—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll bet a barrel of beer we make it.”

  “We’ll find out in about ten seconds,” Chip said.

  As they reached the tank, the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry whuff! anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.

  “Okay, Mister,” Chip called. “I’m going under.” He slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for its tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted.

  Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.

  “It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.

  “Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitched himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.

  The tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a dizzying sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads.

  The machine ground to a halt. Retief found the lever, braced his back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar and heaved.

  With a dry rasp, it slid back. Immediately two heavy rods extended themselves, moved down to touch the pavement, grated. The left track creaked as the weight went off it. Suddenly the tank’s drive raced, and Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaved the fifty-ton machine forward. The jacks screeched as they scored the tarmac, then bit in. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks extended, lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface as the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.

  The tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.

  Five minutes passed.

  ‘Til bet Old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.

  The hatch cycled open. A head came cautiously into view in time to see the needier in Retief’s hand.

  “Come on out,” Retief said.

  The head dropped. Chip snaked forward to ram a short section of steel rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch popped open.

  Retief half rose, aimed the needier. The walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside.

  “That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, Mister,” Chip said. “Now let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”

  “The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.

  Magnan leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just kept coming, did they? Had they no inter-ship communication?”

  “They had their orders,” Retief said. “And their attack plan. They followed it.”

  “What a spectacle,” Magnan said. “Over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”

  “Not much of a spectacle,” Retief said. “You couldn’t see them. Too far away. They all crashed in the mountains.”

  “Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did. The bacterial bombs—”

  “Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”

  “Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure no… ah… message reached you after your arrival?”

  “I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye. “It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn’t make sense.”

  Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. “This information you’ve reported,” he said hurriedly. “This rather fantastic story that the Soetti originated in the Cloud, that they’re seeking a foothold in the main Galaxy because they’ve literally eaten themselves out of subsistence—how did you get it? The one or two Soetti we attempted to question, ah …” Magnan coughed again. “There was an accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”

  “The Jorgensens have a rather special method of interrogating prisoners,” Retief said. “They took one from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They managed to get the story from him. He died of it.”

  “It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “Since the Soetti violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the Whate system.”

  Retief clucked sympathetically.

  “You don’t know who to trust, these days,” he said.

  Magnan looked at him coldly.

  “Spare me your sarcasm, Mr. Retief,” he said. He picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. “By the way, I have another little task for you, Retief. We haven’t had a comprehensive wild-life census report from Brimstone lately—”

  “Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month off. Maybe more.”

  “What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”

  “I’m trying, Mr. Councillor,” Retief said. “Good-by now.” He reached out and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.

  “Chip,” he said, “we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to Anne-Marie.

  “How long,” he said, “do you think it will take you to teach me to ski by moonlight?”

  GROWING

  SEASON

  F. L. Wallace

  The furry little animal edged cautiously toward him, ready to scamper up a tree. But the kernel on the ground was tempting and the animal grabbed it and scurried back to safety. Richel Alsint sat motionless, enjoying himself greatly.

  Outside the park in every direction were many tiers of traffic. He was the only person in the park; it was silent there except for birds. One in particular he noticed, all body, or entirely wing—it was impossible to say which at this distance—soared effortlessly overhead, a small bundle of bright blue feathers. The wings, if it had wings, didn’t move at all; the bird balanced with remarkable skill on air currents. Everything about it might be small, but the voice wasn’t, and it made good use of every note.

  Alsint twisted his hand slowly toward the sack beside him.

  In that position the ship watch was visible. There was no need to look; it was connected to the propulsion processes of the ship and would signal long before he had to be back. Nevertheless he did glance at it.

  In sudden alarm, he jumped up, scattering the contents of the sack. The circle of animals fled into the underbrush and the birds stopped singing and flew away.

  He left everything on the bench. It was untidy, but his life would be more untidy if he missed the ship. He ran to the aircar parked in the clearing and fumbled at the door. The bright blue bird was changing to red, but he didn’t notice that.

  He bounced the car straight up, sinking into the cushions with the acceleration. High above the regular levels of traffic, he located the spaceport in the distance and jammed the throttle forward. The ship was there, and as long as it was, he had a chance. Not much, though. The absence of activity on the ground indicated they were getting ready.

  He dropped the aircar down as close as he could get and left it. There was no time to take the underground passage that came up somewhere near the ship. The guard at the surface gate stopped him.

  “You’re too late,” said the attendant.

  “I’ve got to get in!” Alsint said.

  The guard recognized the uniform, but, sitting in the heavily reinforced cubicle, made no move to press the button which would allow the gate to swing open. It was a high gate and there was no way to get over it.

  He grinned sourly. “Next time you’ll pay attention to the signal.”

  There were worse times and places to argue about it, but Alsint couldn’t remember them. “There wasn’t any signal,” he said. He caught the cynical expression on the guard’s face and extended his hand. “See for yourself.”

  The watch was working, indicating time till takeoff, but the unmistakable glow and the irritating tingle, guaranteed to wake any man out of a sleep this side of the final one, were missing.

  The guard blinked. “Never heard of that ever happening,” he said. “Tell you what—I’ll testify that it wasn’t your fault. That’ll clear you. You can get a job on the next ship and catch up with your own in a month at the most.”

  It wasn’t that easy, nor so simple. Alsint glanced frantically at the watch. Minutes left now, though he couldn’t be sure. If the signal wasn’t functioning, maybe the time was wrong too. “I’ll never get on that one again,” he said. “It’s a tag ship.”

  The guard scrutinized him more closely, differentiating his uniform from others similar to it. “In that case you’d better go to the traffic tower,” he said reluctantly. “They’ll stop it for you.”

  They would, but he’d waste half an hour getting past the red tape at the entrance. There were a number of reasons why he couldn’t let the ship leave without him. “I know our crew,” he said. “They’ll be waiting for me. Let me try to get on,”

  The guard shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” Slowly the gate swung open.

  Alsint dashed through. He had to hurry, but it wasn’t as dangerous as the guard imagined. The watch had failed, but inside the ship was a panel which indicated the presence or absence of any crew member. That panel was near the pilot. He wouldn’t take off without clearing it.

  Besides, there was standard takeoff procedure—always someone at the visionport, watching for latecomers, of which there were usually a few. Alsint raised his head as he ran. He couldn’t see anyone at the visionport.

  Breathing heavily, he brushed against the ship. Late, but not too late. He turned the corner at the vane.

  He didn’t like what he saw. The ramp was up and the outer lock was closed. They were waiting for clearance from the spaceport.

  His composure slipped a little. If the clearance came within the next few minutes, he’d be dead. Not that the clearance would come. A ship just didn’t lift off, leaving one of the crew behind—or he hoped it didn’t.

  He pounded on the lock and shouted, though it was useless. Inside, they couldn’t hear him. The noise frightened” a little red bird which had been hovering nearby. It flew around his head, squawking shrilly.

  Alsint scowled at it. It reminded him unpleasantly of the park. If he hadn’t gone there, he’d be safe inside the ship. True, parks were rare, and people who went to them even more rare. After so many months in the ship, it had been a great temptation—for him, not the others. No one else had been interested.

  Now he had to get in. A tremor ran through the hull and he realized how urgent it was. A little more of this and he would be caught under the rockets.

  The airlock was smooth, but he located the approximate latching point on the outside and stripped off the watch, holding it against the ship by the band. He tried to remember and thought the face should be turned inward. He held it that way and hoped he was right. He closed his eyes and swung hard with his fist.

  His hand exploded with pain and he could feel the flash on his face. The energy, which was sufficient to drive the instrument for a thousand years, dissipated in much less than a second. An instant later the hand which held the strap reacted to the heat. He dropped the useless watch and opened his eyes.

  He had figured it right and he was also lucky. The energy had turned inward, as he had hoped, otherwise he’d have no hand, and the latching mechanism had been destroyed. The resulting heat had buckled the plate outward. The hull was trembling with greater violence as the takeoff rockets warmed up.

  The airlock was still very hot. His fingers sizzled as he grasped the curled edge and pulled out. It moved a little. He shifted his hands for a better grip and heaved. It opened.

  He scrambled inside and shut it behind him, latching it with the emergency device. Close, but it didn’t matter as long as he’d made it. The ship began to rise and the acceleration forced him to kneel in the passageway between the outer and inner lock. He kept thinking of the little red bird he’d seen outside. Burned, no doubt, as he would have been.

  Finally the rockets stopped and the heaviness disappeared. They were out of the atmosphere and hence the ship had shifted to interstellar drive. The heat from the rockets began to abate. He was grateful for that.

  He got to his feet and staggered to the inner lock and leaned against it. That didn’t open, either. He shouted. It might take time, but eventually someone would come close enough to hear him.

  There was air in the passageway and he knew he could survive. It had been too hot; now it was getting cold. He shivered and shook his head in bewilderment.

  None of this was the way it ought to be. It had never been difficult to get on the ship. If he didn’t know better, he’d say—

  But this was not the time to say that.

  He didn’t hear the footsteps on the other side. The lock swung in and he fell forward. His burned hands were too cold to hurt as he checked his fall.

  Scantily clad, Larienne stood over him. “Playing hiding games?” she asked. She got a better look and knelt by his side. “You’re hurt!”

  So he was, but mostly he was tired. In the interval before he accepted the luxury of unconsciousness, the thought flashed across his mind before he could disown it: Someone on the ship was trying to take the plant away, or wanted him to fail.

  Either would have been accomplished if he had been left behind.

  He sat in his room, thinking. He wished he knew more about the crew. Six months was enough to give him wide acquaintance, but not the deep kind. They were a clannish lot on the ship. His own assistant he knew well enough, and the doctor. The captain he hardly ever saw. The rest of them he knew by sight and name, but not much else: the few married couples, the legally unattached girls, and the larger number of male technicians.

  None of them, as far as he could see, had any incentive to engineer the mixup which had nearly caused him to miss the ship. Of course he might be reading into it more than was there. It could have happened that way accidentally. And then maybe it didn’t.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. “Who’s there?” he called.

  Larienne walked in. “Nobody asks who,” she said. “It’s always come in. Even I know that, and I’ve been on this traveling isolation ward a mere three years.”

  She dropped into a chair and draped her legs, long legs that were worth showing off. She had a certain air of impartiality that attracted attention. She was smart, though, and knew when to discard impartiality.

  She eyed him curiously. “I’m trying to discover the secret of your popularity. That damn plant is pining for you.”

  “It’s not me,” he said. “You have to know how to handle it.”

  “Thanks,” she said dryly. “I don’t know how. But Richel Alsint, boy plant psychologist, does. He knows when to increase the circulation, when to give it an extra shot of minerals, and when, on the other hand, to scare the damn thing out of its wits, which I sometimes believe it actually has.”

  “Don’t personalize it,” he warned. “It’s partly plant and partly a machine. Your mistake is that you treat it as if it were wholly a machine.”

  “Seems to me I’ve heard that before. What should I do that I don’t?”

  “Cycles,” he said. “Rhythm. A machine doesn’t need that kind of treatment, but a plant does. Normally it starts as a seed, grows to maturity, produces more seeds, and eventually dies. Our plant isn’t like that, of course. It never produces seeds, and, if we’re careful, doesn’t die. Yet it does have something that faintly corresponds to the original cycles.”

  She sighed. “It might help if I knew what it was—geranium, or sunflower, or whatever.”

  He had told her, but apparently she didn’t want to remember. “It isn’t one plant. It’s been made from hundreds; even I don’t know what they were. One best feature from this, another strong feature from something else. We’ve taken plants apart and recombined them into something new. This is just—plant.”