Space 1999 #7 - Alien Seed

by E. C. Tubb

  ‘John!’ Helena turned as she ran, her face strained. ‘Lynne, I can’t—’

  Koenig caught the girl as she stumbled, throwing her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, taking Helena’s arm as they raced down the tunnel. Behind them came a dull boom as charges exploded to rip masses of rock to fill the opening. An added defence and a reenforcement to the doors.

  More doors stood open ahead and they raced through and into a transport. As the capsule sealed and began to move, Koenig felt the first jar.

  ‘The cavern,’ he said. ‘The walls and roof should be down by now.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  The transport jerked in answer, a peculiar motion that seemed to take the vehicle and shake it before setting it down again. From all around came a deep rumbling as if a mighty organ was playing a bass note faraway. A note that grew louder, to tear the air, to snarl like the anger of a giant, to roar like the fury of a god.

  ‘The nuclear bomb,’ whispered Helena. ‘John! Have we won?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ If the trap had worked the thing would be ash by now, gases that seethed in dying fury, its elemental atoms mixed with others, the whole rendered forever sterile.

  But how to be sure?

  ‘Commander?’ Lynne Saffery blinked and strained against the pressure of his circling arm. He had automatically closed it around her when the shock had come; an instinctive gesture to protect the helpless. Now, looking up at him, she smiled. ‘This is nice, Commander, but how did we get here? Not that it matters, as long as we’re together.’

  ‘Lynne!’

  ‘Dr Russell!’ She straightened, one hand lifting to touch her hair, blushing a little. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘A little confused.’ The girl glanced from one to the other. ‘What happened? Did I walk in my sleep or something? Was the experiment a success?’ She touched the soiled garment she wore. ‘Why am I dressed like this? Doctor, with all respect, I don’t think I want to pursue any more investigations into my ESP attributes.’

  Koenig met Helena’s eyes and felt himself relax. The encephalograph would confirm it, but he was convinced the girl’s brain wave pattern was now normal—proof that the alien creature was dead, totally destroyed, the mental attachment formed between it and the girl now dissolved.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Edward Markham had long since decided that Constance Boswell was the most beautiful girl to be found on the Moon and now, watching her at work, he had no cause to alter his opinion. Moving over the soil, she had the appearance of a nymph, small feet seeming to float over the ground, her elfin face holding an enigmatic mystery. In the glow of the artificial sun, her hair shone with the gleam of polished gold.

  Impulsively he said, ‘Connie, I love you. Why won’t you marry me?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This day, that day, sometime, never.’ Laughing, she avoided his hands. ‘Be sensible, Edward. We both have work to do. Save romance for our recreation periods. Are you going to the dance tonight?’

  ‘If you’ll be there, yes.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Then so will I.’ He watched as again she lowered the instrument she was carrying to the dirt, thrust the tip into the loam and triggered a switch on the handle. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Checking for radioactivity, among other things. This is a very special piece of ground, or didn’t you know?’

  ‘Why else do you think I’m here.’ He moved a little conscious of his purple sleeve. ‘We’ve had enough trouble with things coming from space without wanting more. That’s why the commander ordered a security guard to stand watch.’

  ‘In case monsters spring from the ground like the warriors from Jason’s teeth?’

  ‘Jason’s?’

  ‘The teeth of the dragon that Cadmus slew and that Jason planted. Surely you know the story of the Argo?’

  ‘I know it,’ he said, and took a step closer to where she stood. ‘But you’ve got it wrong. It’s Cadmus’s teeth, not Jason’s.’

  ‘So, what’s the difference? No matter what you call them, they still gave trouble.’ She tested another spot, triggered the results to register on the tape, then moved on. Below each point she tested rested a seed, their positions marked by a red tab. ‘How’s Dennis?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Tell him I asked after him when you see him.’

  ‘Tell him yourself. He’ll be out and about tomorrow.’ Edward shook his head as he looked at the girl. ‘What does it take to make you aware I’m alive and waiting? A broken leg? Some bruises? A dose of radioactivity? All that happened to Dennis is that he didn’t move fast enough and got himself hurt in the rock fall when that monster was cremated. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, then spare time for Sonya. She was really in love with Ivan.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Constance grew abruptly serious. ‘And I don’t mean to tease you, Edward. It’s just that, well, we’re here and are going to stay here and it’s stupid to get too involved. Why can’t we just be happy together without wanting to own each other? Why do you have to be jealous all the time?’

  ‘Because I love you, I guess.’

  ‘I know. And I like to hear you say it. Now move over and let me finish this.’

  Obediently he stepped out of her way and took up a position on the path. Above the sun glowed with a warmth he remembered when, as a boy, he had stolen time from school to go swimming in the local river, one still fit for such purposes if you ignored the broken glass and rusted iron that littered the bottom. Closing his eyes he could almost smell the rich scent of grass and trees, bushes and wildflowers and, with imagination, he could almost hear the hum of bees.

  They would come, he thought, opening his eyes and looking at the neat plots, some covered with a fuzz of green now, others still waiting to support the crops soon to take root. On the far side of the cavern tiny figures worked on the wall, smoothing, gouging, taming blank stone into a work of art.

  He might join them, he thought. Spend a few hours of his leisure periods giving a hand to the sculptors and artists. It would make a pleasant change from working in the maintenance section as a voluntary grease-monkey. Yet there was something about working on an Eagle that couldn’t be beaten. To handle machinery so carefully designed, so functional in purpose, was to handle metal shaped as if it were a gem.

  Idly he wondered if his request for a transfer from Security to Reconnaissance would be approved.

  ‘Edward!’ He heard the sharp intake of the girl’s breath and spun towards her, his hand dropping to the laser bolstered at his waist. ‘Edward! Look!’

  He followed her pointing finger, stepping closer to gain a better view, seeing a dull, metallic-looking shape lying at the bottom of a hollow that she had cleared with her hands. A sphere as large as a grapefruit. One of the alien seeds.

  ‘What is it? Danger of some kind?’

  ‘No!’ Her laughter was music. ‘I noticed a variation on the readings and decided to take a look. Can’t you. see, Edward? Don’t you understand?’ Her finger touched points on the surface of the sphere, tiny cracks that showed slight protrusions. ‘They’re growing, darling! The seeds are growing!’

  The music was from The Planets Suite—Saturn, The Bringer of Old Age. Leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, Koenig let himself sink into the magic of Gustav Holst’s genius. He could almost taste the dust, smell the decay, feel the cobwebs of accumulated centuries, of aching millennia. Responding to the sonorous chords, his body felt the weight and burden of passing years, his mind became filled with the depression induced by remembered hopes and lost aspirations. As the music ended he sat with his mind drifting in a vast emptiness.

  ‘John?’ Helena Russell had come to sit beside him. Now, resting her hand on his own, she said, ‘John, what is worrying you?’

  ‘Am I worried?’

  ‘Of course. You are always worried about something,
but I didn’t mean that. This is something special. Your choice of music, for example. I’ll admit the piece has an uplift at the end, but it’s one that can easily be overlooked, the more so if the listener is in a state of acute anxiety. And I was watching your eyelids. When did you last have a psychological checkup?’

  Smiling, he said, ‘Helena, don’t you ever stop, working?’

  ‘Do you?’ Returning the smile, she gently shook her head. ‘You’re not a machine, John. You can be affected by strain and stress the same as the rest of us. What I’d like to prescribe for you is a nice long vacation.’

  ‘By the sea?’ he suggested, entering into the spirit of the game. ‘Or high in the mountains so as to manage a little skiing? Or in the country somewhere? Where do you suggest, Doctor?’

  ‘I’m serious, John. You know, the ancient Romans had more sense than they are usually given credit for. They knew the limitations of men. When they gave a general a triumph, they had a slave standing behind him to whisper in his ear, to remind him that, though he was being treated as a god, he was only a man and therefore mortal. Maybe you should have someone behind you all the time to remind you that you aren’t a machine but only human.’

  ‘And liable to error.’

  ‘Of course—is there any human who isn’t?’ But she had grasped his meaning. ‘The seeds, John. You’re worried about the alien seeds.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? They seem harmless enough.’

  ‘They’re growing.’ He turned to face her, the light catching the hard planes of his face, deepening the shadows in the concavities, turning his features into a mask of superficial hardness. ‘Helena, I’ll be honest with you. I hoped the damned things wouldn’t grow. I wanted them just to lie in the ground like stones and be equally harmless. I agreed to have them planted because I didn’t want an argument with Victor. A weakness.’

  ‘No, John,’ she corrected, ‘a consideration for others.’

  ‘A gamble,’ he said bitterly, ‘and one I lost.’

  He was tired, she thought, as he leaned back in the chair. Tired, and more than tired; nerve and sinew held tense too long, mind given no respite from the endless necessity of having to make decisions, muscles responding with psychosomatic fatigue. And always would be the burden of responsibility, the isolation of command.

  A holiday, she had suggested. A vacation in an impossible place where he could relax and forget and allow the hours and days to drift by without thought or concern. One day, perhaps they would be able to build such a place. Build one or find one, but even as she thought about it, she knew that for Koenig there could never be a true haven of rest. The most he could hope to obtain was a few snatched hours free of worry. The most she could do for him was to give him the strength of her trust.

  And, at times like this, to try and lift his spirits, to edge him back from the depths of depression which, at times, yawned at his feet.

  ‘What’s new about the seeds, John? I know they’re growing, but that’s about all. Is there anything more than that?’

  ‘Much more,’ he said grimly. ‘I’m wailing for a report from Nancy Coleman. Let’s go and get it.’

  The botanist was in her laboratory and she wasn’t alone. Victor Bergman turned and smiled as Koenig and Helena entered. He wore a thick apron and was busy with acids and vials.

  ‘John! Helena! This will interest you! I’ve just verified Nancy’s findings as to the chromosome count of the seeds. It’s fantastic!’

  As was everything else about the alien product—its rate of growth, the intricate root system, the oddly coloured sprouts and vestigial leaves. Koenig glanced through a window to where guards stood around the plot to keep watchers from the growths, which had now covered the dirt with a mass of convoluted spines and tendrils of brilliant hues.

  Helena said, ‘What have you found, Victor?’

  ‘Nancy discovered it during a routine check. We’ve been making tests at regular intervals, and finally she was able to isolate the basic structure. I—well, you tell them, Nancy.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor.’ The botanist put down a slide and turned to face the visitors. ‘As you know, chromosomes are to be found in every living organism, including bacteria. They contain the genes that determine the adult characteristics such as, in the case of a man, the hair colour, eye colour, height and so on, including any susceptibility to certain organic malfunctions and inherent defects, such as haemophilia. The numbers of chromosomes vary as to each species; the garden pea, for example, contains a total of eight—four from each parent. A man contains forty-eight.’ Pausing, she then ended by saying, ‘The plants out there, from what I can determine, contain a dozen times that number.’

  ‘What?’ Helena frowned. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘No,’ admitted the botanist calmly. ‘That is why I qualified my statement. There could be more, and I suspect there are, but I am sure there are at least more than five hundred.’

  Koenig said harshly, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing really new, Commander.’ Nancy Coleman picked up a clipboard from the bench and ran her finger down a list of notations. ‘The initial growth was extremely high and is proof of the tremendous concentration of energy held in each seed. The root system is vascular, but it differs from the usual combination of xylem and phloem and is much more efficient. Chlorophyl is present, of course, but, again, there seem to be additives that enhance the conversion rate from received energy to carbohydrates. There is also another compound manufactured, the nature of which I have yet to determine. It is a complex molecular chain that is concentrated in the centre and base of the growth. There are also traces of cholesterol.’

  ‘Cholesterol?’ Koenig frowned. ‘It’s been a long time since I studied botany, but I didn’t think plants contained cholesterol.’

  ‘They don’t,’ said Nancy Coleman. ‘It’s a sterol found in animals. It’s also a vitamin for insects.’ Her finger moved down the list of notations. ‘I also found a minute amount of choline.’

  Helena said thoughtfully, ‘That’s a vitamin for cockroaches. As I remember, it’s also a constituent of certain important fats, such as lecithin and acetylcholine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you usually find such a substance in plants?’

  Before she could answer, Bergman said, ‘We are dealing with something alien, Helena. We can’t expect it to be exactly like the plants we are familiar with. It grew under a different sun and was subjected to different forces. We can only guess at its natural environment. All we know is that so far the growths display tremendous promise. The initial nutrient stored in the seeds, for example, and there could be fibres of incredible strength, medicines, fruits, saps of industrial value. All we can do now is wait.’

  ‘Wait for what, Victor?’ Koenig turned from the window. His face was taut, the lines engraved as if with acid. ‘A plant,’ he said sombrely. ‘Yet one with a fantastic number of chromosomes. One with mammallian ingredients. One with a substance used by insects as a vitamin. What, in God’s name, is growing out there?’

  The spines straightened and swelled into leaves, each reaching upwards like a pleading hand towards the glowing disc of the artificial sun. The tendrils coiled into spirals of multi-coloured glory, looking like plaited ropes that moved to join, to merge, to change into a single complex, flower. Beneath it rose a bole, swelling from the heart of the dissipated seed, a growth ringed with protective leaves edged with saw-like teeth. It resembled a marrow standing on end, the skin darkly green and traced with an elegant design in red and yellow. Quickly it grew to stand above the height of a man, the great flower at its summit held on a thick, flexible stalk, the open frond of petals turned towards the sun.

  And then, unaccountably, the plants began to die.

  Constance Boswell noticed it first, frowning over the readings of her electronic instrument, checking various points and then summoning Nancy Coleman.

  The botanist shook her head when later she conferred with Victor
Bergman.

  ‘A general wilting, Professor. I can’t as yet determine any particular cause. The water content of the soil is normal, and we have maintained the introduction of specific chemical fertilisers. Examination shows no obvious root damage.’

  ‘Could it be the natural end of their life-cycle?’ Bergman shook his head. ‘No, of course not, even though alien the plants must serve some kind of purpose, if only that of perpetuating their own kind. Did you notice any formation of fruit or seeds of any kind either in the carpels or rind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps they need an energy-level change. Some plants need an environmental trigger to induce the final stage.’ He checked himself, aware of his limited knowledge, aware, too, that he was talking to an expert. ‘Or am I being stupid?’

  ‘You could never be that, Professor,’ she said. ‘But each of us must stick to his own trade. I’d look like a perfect fool if I tried to argue with you about physics. But you are right, as it happens; chrysanthemums, for example, will only flower when the days and nights are of equal length. That’s why they are so popular with nurserymen—they can bring them to bloom at any time they like simply by adjusting the lights. The alien plants could have something similar, but what stimulus shall we give them? Extra heat? Cold? Darkness? What?’

  ‘Everything we can think of,’ said Bergman firmly. ‘I’ll arrange to have the plot covered with an opaque seal and we can segregate the plants into sections. One we’ll chill, another heat, a third we’ll plunge Into darkness, a fourth we’ll flood and so on. Eventually we’ll find the answer, Nancy. We’ve got to!’

  But despite all they could do the plants continued to wilt. Only those that had been flooded showed a little strengthening, but it didn’t last. Nancy Coleman, her eyes ringed with dark circles of fatigue, tested and checked and, in the end, admitted failure.