"I kept fetching water and testing and retreating all the way back to
the plain. Pretty soon there's not going to be any place safe within
miles of where these mutants can take root. Near the plain's camp,
they're still innocuous--the original species. The propagation response
is triggered by rain, all right, but the seeds just pop out, and, of
course, the poison is undoubtedly weak--a bother only to insects."
"But they weren't a problem--" Moya interjected.
"Time," I said. "Five years. Look here on the chart. I figured this to
be the center: the first team's permanent camp on the hill. Now what
happened there? Heaters to destroy immediate vegetation, and
_Radio-Frequency_ beams to kill insects and their larvae over a wider
area. R-F--don't you see? Cells react to certain portions of the radio
spectrum. Some are destroyed, depending upon intensity. Some behave
strangely--the 'marching protozoa,' the 'dancing amoeba.' In others,
chromosomal aberrations occur, resulting in mutations. Remember the
experiments with yeasts, garlic, grains? The growth of some
microorganisms is stimulated by R-F irradiation."
"Then these glorified flytraps got mad at what was happening to their
innards and decided to fight even harder for survival?"
"You're anthropomorphizing," I told Moya, "but that's the way I see it.
They just responded along already established lines."
I paused and noted the expressions on the faces of the crew. Maybe it
was that, and maybe it was the fact that my leg hadn't held up very well
under the beating I'd given it. And maybe it was twelve good
men--Anyway, I spent the next half hour pulling no punches. When I'd
finished, Interstel had regained its reputation. Nobody--neither
short-timer nor veteran--likes to hear dead comrades characterized as
"stupid." But I figured the crew would remember.
Moya seemed unfazed, as if he'd paid scant attention to my speech; he
rubbed his chin reflectively.
"The bug suits--"
"Were they any protection? At long range, probably. But up close--"
Moya apparently could think of nothing more to say.
We radiated the danger area, left 231 for a pick-up team, and headed
for home.
* * * * *
Moya walked with me from Quarantine to the Terra Ramp. The leg still
wasn't right.
"Did you mention me kindly in your report?"
"Of course not," I told him.
He chuckled and put his hand on my shoulder.
"About Ben Stuart--"
"It's a nasty job," I said.
"Did he rate getting cashiered?"
"He did, Tony."
"Well, take care of yourself, Ivy."
The redhead again was on duty at the outbound desk. She ignored me.
_Xanadu!_
It was night, and there was a heavy fog. Standing alone on the open
promenade outside the dome, I was grateful that I couldn't see the
sky--and the ominous stars that were not so far away.
A couple of months later, I heard that Epsilon-Terra had received its
official name: _Atri-Terra_. _Atri_ from attrition. I've wondered ever
since whether GS based the choice upon the secular or the theological
definition.