Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass.
"All right," Rodney said belligerently into his radio. "What's holding
up the procession?"
Martin was silent.
Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. It
was in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing before
a bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far as
the combined light of their torches would reach.
"Seeds!" Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass.
Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips.
Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest section
of the bank.
Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If they
wouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? "Don't, Wass!"
Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. "Why
not?"