_October 5-9, 1977_
_The Shack--Wednesday, October 5, 4_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
She switched off the half-track engine, and as the spotlight faded, the
world directly ahead of her blinked out.
She opened the cab door and stepped out into heaven. Above her, the
gorgeous enormous full Earth, gleaming blue-greenly against the black
velvet stardiamonded backdrop of everywhere--always out there.
And right ahead, now, the muted twin glows of the Shack itself and the
Shack guardhouse.
She flashed on her helmet lamp, picked her way over Moon crust to the
guardhouse. Looked in, exchanged smiles, and went on to the Shack.
She sat down in front of the tank, where the greyish-white ganglions
had long since ceased to show discrete patterns. Now they crowded
together, piled on each other, multiplied, multiplying. The daily
“watering” of a month ago would have been hopelessly inadequate now; a
steady trickle of nutrient fed the tank from a storage drum--and even
the daily ten gallons hardly seemed to account for the burgeoning of
the white cells.
Lisa looked. Watched. Stared. And _listened_.
A nagging thought stopped her. She switched on her radio.
“Jim?”
“That you, Miss Trovi?” From the guardhouse.
“Yes. I meant to ask--will you call me at six? I want to get back for
dinner tonight.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.”