Trehearne trailed out with the rest of them, almost the whole ship's
company, to gather the weird harvest. The radiation-suit he wore
was not too heavy in weight--it couldn't be, for men who had to do
hard work--a simple coverall of flexible metallic fabric, with a
phone-equipped helmet and a separate knapsack oxygen-pack that could be
quickly replaced when its oxygen was worked out.
The world he stood on was like something out of nightmare. Fungi higher
than his head grew thickly, like a gruesome travesty of a forest, and
in colors ranging from black to crimson and a yellow like spilled
brains. The giant star--a sick, mad star, Trehearne thought, like all
the short-period true variables--brooded in the poisonous sky, past the
maximum peak of its brilliance now but still pouring out its febrile
energies in a purplish glare. Trehearne grimaced, and shook his head.
"This," he said, "is a planet only Weizsacker could love."
Perri's voice came over the helmet phone, curiously thin but so close
at hand that Trehearne started. "Who's Weizsacker?"
"An Earthman with a theory. He advanced the idea that most stars have
planets."