by E. C. Tubb
“Respraying?” Thorpe stepped back as the mist of dissolved chemicals approached his feet. “I didn’t think it was due so soon.”
“Jelkson’s orders.” The man straightened and eased his back. “The whole farm has to be gone over.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” Thorpe sucked at his pipe as the man moved on. He smiled as Susan came towards him. “Susan! It’s good to see you. I wondered if you were going to join me for coffee.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “We’ve just finished sterilising number seven. I thought that I’d never get away.”
“A long job, isn’t it?” Thorpe led the way into the dispensary and, loading a percolator, switched on the heating element. “Coffee won’t take long. Sit down and rest a while, you look tired.”
“I feel tired.” Gratefully Susan slumped into a chair. “You know, Doc, sometimes I love this work and sometimes I hate it. I think that this must be one of those times.” She sighed, automatically patting a long strand of blonde hair back into place, and her lips pursed a little as if she were a spoiled young child getting ready to cry.
“You don’t really mean that.” Thorpe turned as the percolator began to boil and busied himself with cups, milk and sugar. “You’re just tired from overwork. Here,” he handed her a steaming cup. “Drink this and you’ll feel better.”
“Thank you.” Susan reached out for the cup, smiling, then lost her smile as she saw his expression. “What’s the matter?”
“Your hands.” Thorpe set down the cup and took one of her long, slender hands between his own. The delicate skin was spotted with angry flecks of red. “Are they both like this?”
“Yes.” Disinterestedly she held them both up for inspection.
“Do they hurt?”
“They itch a little,” she confessed. “I noticed it a little while ago.” She stared at her hands and shrugged. “It’s probably a rash of some kind from the chemicals. Jim is always telling me to wear gloves, but I keep forgetting.”
“Jim?”
“Mr. Jelkson.” Susan really did blush this time. Thorpe smiled.
“You were right the first time. Jim it is. I had forgotten that Jelkson had a first name.” He passed Susan her coffee and stared thoughtfully at her as he stirred his own. “You like Jelkson, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes.” Susan stared defiantly at the old doctor. “I know that he isn’t very popular with the others but I think that he is a fine man. They just don’t understand him, that’s all.”
“And you do, of course.” Thorpe finished his coffee and reached for his pipe. “Nothing wrong in that, Susan. Jelkson is a fine man but he is too introverted. Marriage could do a lot for him.”
“I never said anything about that.”
“When an introverted man like Jelkson meets an attractive girl who takes an interest in him, then there is only one thing he can think about,” said Thorpe. “Has he asked you yet?”
“No.”
“He will,” promised Thorpe. “And you?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I like Jim a lot but....”
“Not enough to marry him?”
“I don’t know,” she said again. “You’ve got no right to ask me.”
“Put it down to an old man’s curiosity,” smiled Thorpe. “After all you’re a big girl now and it’s natural for you to think of marriage. Your only trouble is deciding whom to choose. How about Perchon?”
“Not Perchon.” Susan shivered a little. “I don’t like him at all.”
“He is rather a hell-bender,” admitted Thorpe. “Most of his money goes on the girls in town and the rest in trying to win back what he’s spent at the casino. King is a married man so you can’t waste time on him. Kenton? How about Dan?”
“He never notices me,” said Susan. “For him I don’t exist.”
“No?” Thorpe shrugged. He knew better. He had seen the way the Controller stared at the young botanist when she walked past him and. he knew human nature too well to be fooled. Susan, though she denied it, must have known too. No woman could be close to a man for long without having a pretty shrewd idea of how he felt about her.
“Finished your probing, Doc?” Susan’s smile took any sting from the words. “I do believe that you won’t rest until I’m well and truly married. If you don’t promise to avoid the subject then I won’t have coffee with you again.”
“I promise,” said Thorpe quickly. His banter had served its purpose and now he got down to the real business. “Before you go, Susan,” he said casually, “just let me have a look at those hands of yours. A rash like that can develop into something quite painful.”
“It’s nothing,” she protested. “Probably an allergy symptom. It’ll clear up soon enough.”
“Maybe.” Thorpe squinted at the tiny flecks then went to fetch an instrument. He passed it over her hands, grunted, then reached for a jar of salve. “Rub this well in, wash in hot water after an hour and use more of this salve. Repeat the washing each hour until all itching vanishes. Got that?”
“I think so.” Susan made a face at the sight of the thick ointment but obediently rubbed it into her hands. “What is it, Doc?”
“Nothing serious, but it could be bothersome.” Thorpe glanced at his instrument and then back at the girl. “Tell me, Susan, did you handle the plants with your bare hands during the sterilisation?”
“No. I didn’t touch them at all. The labour squad cleared the tanks and took them to the incinerator.”
“I see. When you examined them, did you touch them with bare bands then?”
“The first time I examined them?” Susan frowned, pausing in her task of applying the salve. “Yes. Yes, I think I did. Why?”
“No reason.” Thorpe rose and picked up his instrument. “Do you happen to know where Jelkson is now?”
“He went over to see the Denebians,” said Susan. “Kenton asked him to go. He thought there might be a possibility that they had some seed and, as Jelkson is so friendly with them, he suggested that he ask for some.”
“And Kenton?”
“He went into town to see Ransom.” Susan finished anointing her hands. “There! Satisfied?”
“So far, yes. Now wear gloves and don’t forget to wash in hot water every hour. Water as hot as you can bear and use plenty of salve afterwards. Call in tonight and I’ll have another look at them.””
“Yes, doctor,” she said primly. “Anything else, doctor?”
“Yes,” he said sternly. “I’ve got things to do now, so you can wash the cups and clean out the percolator for me.” He headed towards the door, halting on the threshold to look back at her. “And Susan, better make up your mind pretty fast, I’m still a bachelor, remember.”
He smiled wryly at the sound of her laughter.
* * * *
Jelkson was curious as he followed Phorisci from the Director’s office into the heart of the Denebian hydroponic farm. While no great attempt was made at secrecy yet no open co-operation existed between go farms. Visitors to either were usually entertained in the administration buildings, though there had, occasionally, been exchange visits of inspection. To invite a visitor to watch the sterilisation of a building was something that just didn’t normally happen.
Jelkson was intrigued and, his mind being as it was, he sought for explanation.
Friendship he immediately discounted. There could be no friendship, not as men understood the term, between alien races. Respect, yes. Friendship, no. The very difference of the thought processes of the races were against it. Customs, mores, differing points of valuation, all presented an insuperable barrier to the warm intimacy which friendship implied. So Jelkson, even as he smiled and chatted with his guide and host, was busy trying to solve the problem.
Phorisci could well have left him in the office to wait his return. He had done so on other occasions and Jelkson had expected to be asked to wait. Instead he had been invited on a tour of inspection, for that was what it amounted to
. The obvious reason for such an invitation was to make sure that the office remained vacant.
Jelkson considered it, mulling over every facet of the problem, then reluctantly dismissed it. He could see no reason why a visitor, any visitor, should not know of his presence.
“The building to be sterilised is just over there,” said Phorisci. “We had a regrettable accident, an alien crop, Rigellian lank-weed, promised well and then developed virulent tumours. Our chemists say that wrong feeding was the cause but I dare not take any chances. Destruction and sterilisation is the only answer in such a case. Do you agree?”
“Certainly.” Jelkson looked with interest through the glass of the building. “I see that you have not yet cleared the tanks.”
“Not yet. First we sterilise and then, when the crop is dead, we clean out the building. You use different methods, perhaps?”
“Slightly different,” admitted Jelkson. “We remove and incinerate the crop before sterilisation.” He glanced at Phorisci. “Aren’t you afraid of the virus, if it is a virus, contaminating the next crop? I would think that the obvious thing to do would be to remove the infected growth first.”
“No. We sterilise it first. That prevents any danger of spreading the infection by confining it to this one building. If we were to remove the crop it would mean sterilisation of all matter which came into contact with it.”
“Of course, that is our biggest problem.” Jelkson saw no reason to be at all secretive about so important a subject. Phorisci smiled and shook his head.
“Our methods differ, my friend. We use direct radiation for sterilisation purposes. It has the advantage of destroying both crop and infection.”
“Direct radiation?” Jelkson looked thoughtful. “But isn’t that extremely dangerous?”
“Not very. There is some danger, naturally, but it is minor and the method is perfectly safe providing precautions are taken.” Phorisci called to a blue-skinned worker and took something from him.
“See? This is the cartridge we use.” He held out a small object a little like an old-time hand grenade. “Here is the fuse. Here is the safety device, remove it and the cartridge is primed. Here is the detonator. It can be set for any period up to five minutes, ample time for the operator to get out of range. Inside the casing there is a small quantity of unstable elements which, when detonated, disintegrate at a controlled rate of fission.”
“Neat.” Jelkson took the thing and examined it. “A miniature atomic bomb. I take it that the fission is controlled to below the violent level?”
“Naturally, we do not wish to destroy our buildings.” Phorisci took the object and handed it back to the worker. “Its sole purpose is to release a flood of gamma and other radiation utterly fatal to all animal and vegetable life. There are some secondary effects but they are minor. The building should be allowed to ‘cool’ for a few hours after use before entering, and for a period of several days before replanting.”
“To allow the artificial radioactivity to die away.” Jelkson nodded. “The greatest danger would be in handling the exposed vegetation but a great deal would depend on the radiation-tolerance of the race concerned. I believe that we have a higher tolerance than yourselves so, in fact, there would be less danger for us than for you.” He glanced to where the worker had disappeared into the building. “How great is the lethal range?”
“About fifty yards. The walls and roof of the building tend to shield the outside and, after the exposure, the secondary effects are quite local.” Phorisci looked up as the worker gestured from the door of the building. “We had better withdraw now. He is signalling that he is about to pull the release.”
Jelkson allowed himself to be led to a safe distance. He was interested in the Denebian’s sterilisation procedure and, when he compared it to his own, slow and tedious removal of crops and flame-searing of buildings, he could see immediate advantages.
“Now,” said Phorisci quietly, and, instinctively, Jelkson shielded his eyes.
“No need for that,” said the Director calmly. “Little of the energy is wasted in the visible spectrum.” He glanced at a chronometer attached to his left wrist. “There! It is over.”
“So soon?” Jelkson felt a vague sense of disappointment. He had expected something more spectacular. Phorisci must have guessed what he was thinking for, as he led the way through the buildings, he chuckled.
“The old methods were more of a show, I admit, but think of the work! To flame-burn every square millimetre and then not to be sure that sterilisation was complete. No, the new methods are far more reliable. In a few months there won’t be a farm using anything other than the method you have just seen.”
“This system is new then?” Jelkson halted by a building and casually glanced at the ranked plants just visible through the glass of the roof. “How new?”
“The factory sent me sample bombs a few weeks ago. We have used them perhaps twice.” Phorisci took Jelkson by the arm and continued his walk. “Normally I would hesitate to use them but the test reports were so reassuring that I felt I had no option. Labour, as you know, is always short and, with these cartridges, it will be possible to sterilise at every harvesting. It will be a comfort to know that no stray virus or mould will be able to attack the new planting.”
“A great comfort,” said Jelkson dryly. He remained silent during the rest of the conducted tour.
* * * *
It was night and the two moons of Lubridgida hung like a pair of matched pearls in the cloudless sky. Kenton stared up at them, the smoke from his cigarette softening the thin lines of his features as they were reflected in the window before which he stood. Abruptly he turned and stared at the two men in his office.
“I still can’t believe it,” he said. “Jelkson, are you certain?”
“I saw it,” said the botanist. “I don’t think that Phorisci knew what he was doing. He gave me a conducted tour on the excuse that he wanted to show me how they sterilise their buildings. That was just an excuse. What he really wanted to prove was that they were not growing tobacco.”
“Are they?” King, fat, rumpled, his normally jovial features hard now and taut, stared at the little botanist. Jelkson shrugged.
“I didn’t see any.”
“Does that prove anything?” Kenton sounded bitter. “I told you what Ransom said. It is perfectly possible that the Denebians learned of the strike and are playing their own game.” Savagely he slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. “Damn them! If I could only be sure!”
“How sure is ‘sure’?” snapped King. “Jelkson has told us that he now believes the tobacco crop was ruined by exposure to radiation. The Denebians used direct radiation bombs to sterilise their buildings. They could have smuggled one into number seven. If they had then the results would match what we found. Right, Jelkson?”
“Yes.” Jelkson sighed. “I’m afraid that is the only conclusion I can draw from the evidence at hand. The fact that they are not growing tobacco means nothing. Phorisci could know that seed is on the way to him by the next ship.”
“He could have some already,” snapped King. “With our crop destroyed the market is wide open. All they have to do is to step in and supply the demand. Once they grab the market we take a back seat.” He sat back and glowered at the windows.
“I disagree,” said Jelkson primly. “I think that I can claim to know more about the Denebians than any other man on Lubridgida. They are coldly logical and they do not lie. When Phorisci told me that he had no seed he was telling the truth. However, he had not told me that he had no seedlings. He took me over his farm to show me that he was not lying by restrictive truth. The Denebians have no tobacco.”
“‘But why tobacco?” Kenton looked helplessly at the botanist. “If they wanted to sabotage us with their trick bombs then why ruin the tobacco? That’s what I can’t understand.”
“I’ve thought about that,” admitted Jelkson. “My theory is that they don’t believe us when we tell them smoki
ng is just a habit Almost everyone smokes and, as far as the Denebians are concerned, everyone smokes most of the time. They must think that smoking is an important part of our diet.” He gestured as he saw Kenton’s dubious expression. “It’s just a theory.”
“They’re after the market,” said King grimly. “To me that’s obvious. What isn’t so obvious is how they managed to ruin both our seeds and the crop.” He scowled and rubbed at his jowl. “Dan, what are the chances of a Denebian creeping in here unobserved?”
“None.”
“That’s what I would have said. The bomb I can swallow, it could have been planted at night, but the seeds are something else.” He looked it the Controller. “You know what I’m thinking?”
“Yes.” Kenton smashed out his cigarette. “I’ve been trying not to think of it because I don’t believe that any man could be so low. But there’s no other answer. Someone has sold himself out to the Denebians.” He took a deep breath. “The question is, who?”
Kenton stared at the other two men as his words faded into silence. Impatiently he fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, lit one with hands which trembled a little, and felt the muscle high on one cheek begin to twitch in warning of mounting irritation. He sucked smoke and forced himself to be calm.
“Let’s look at it this way,” he said. “At the inquiry we found that someone, not a Denebian, had introduced spores into the seeds. I’ll leave out the question of accident. With the news about the radiation bombs I don’t think we need even consider it. So, someone is doing the damage and, from what we know, they are getting paid for it. Let’s start considering suspects.”
“Take me,” said King. “What would I gain?”
“Nothing. Also you didn’t have the opportunity. You have no contact with the Denebians that I know of. You never go into town and, by ruining the crop, you would be cutting your financial throat.”