Seconds later, perched monkey-see, monkey-do on the branch, I lost any
lingering feeling of foolishness.
I sat there for quite a while, sickened. I thought about the crew of
231, and the other pieces of the puzzle. One of them had to be
arrogance--the natural arrogance of picked people that leads to a belief
in corporeal immortality: _Nothing can happen to me; you, maybe, but not
me._
* * * * *
Even though I knew exactly what to expect, it was impossible not to jerk
back involuntarily with the others.
We were in the star ship, clustered around a bell jar. The jar contained
a small specimen of the killer that I'd dug up gingerly and brought back
for evidence.
I'd introduced water into the jar, and the first reaction had just taken
place.
"Watch closely," I cautioned.
Again it happened--innocently at first and then too swiftly for the eye
to follow. One of the little protuberances seemed to swell
slightly--_Ping._ Something struck the wall of the bell jar hard enough
to evoke a clear, sharp, resonant note.
"I don't know the exact range of a mature specimen," I said, grimly,
"but I saw leaves shake a good twenty yards away."
"A seed," one of the crewmen breathed. "Nothing but a tiny,
insignificant _seed_."
Moya shook his head.
"A deadly missile, son, wearing or containing a virulent poison. And
people used to blather about curare."