[Sidenote: _Gourmets all agree that nothing can beat oysters on the
half-shell--not even the armed might of the Terran Confederation!_]
"Nice that you dropped in," the man in the detention room said. "I never
expected a visit from the Consul General. It makes me feel important."
"The Confederation takes an interest in all of its citizens' welfare,"
Lanceford said. "You _are_ important! Incidentally, how is it going?"
"Not too bad. They treat me all right. But these natives sure are tough
on visitors. I've never been checked so thoroughly in all my life--and
now this thirty day quarantine! Why, you'd think I was carrying the
plague instead of a sample case!"
The chubby little commercial traveller probably had a right to complain,
Lanceford thought. After all, a Niobian quarantine station isn't the
pleasantest sort of environment. It's not meant to be comfortable,
physical discomfort being as good a way as any to discourage casual
visitors. The ones who have fortitude enough to stand the entry
regulations can get in, but tourists seldom visit Niobe. However, the
planet's expanding economy offered a fertile field for salesmen, and men
of that stripe would endure far worse hardships than a port of entry in
pursuit of the Almighty Credit.
Now this fellow, George Perkins, was a typical salesman. And despite his
soft exterior there was a good hard core inside.
Lanceford looked him over and decided that he would last. "You came here
of your own free will, didn't you?" he asked.
"If you call a company directive free will," Perkins answered. "I
wouldn't come here for a vacation, if that's what you mean. But the
commercial opportunities can't be ignored."
"I suppose not, but you can hardly blame the Niobians for being
suspicious of strangers. Perhaps there's no harm in you. But they have a
right to be sure; they've been burned before." Lanceford uncoiled his
lean gray length from the chair and walked over to the broad armorglas
window. He stared out at the gloomy view of Niobe's rainswept polar
landscape. "You know," he continued, "you might call this Customs
Service a natural consequence of uninvestigated visitors." He brooded
over the grayness outside. A polar view was depressing--scrubby
vegetation, dank grassland, the eternal Niobian rain. He felt sorry for
Perkins. Thirty days in this place would be sheer torture.
"It must have been quite some disturbance to result in this." Perkins
waved his hand at the barren room. "Sounds like you know something about
it."
"I do. In a way you might say that I was responsible for it."
"Would you mind telling me?"
* * * * *
"I wouldn't mind at all." Lanceford looked at his watch. "If I have the
time, that is. I'm due to be picked up in an hour, but Niobians have
some quaint conceptions of time. So if you want to take a chance that I
won't finish--"
"Go ahead."
"To start with, take a look at that insigne over the door. The whole
story's right there."
Perkins eyed the emblem of the Niobian Customs Service. It was a
five-pointed star surrounding a circle, superimposed over the typically
Terran motto: "Eternal Vigilance is the Price of Safety." He nodded.
"How come the Terran style?" he asked.
"That's part of the story. Actually that insigne's a whole chapter of
Niobe's history. But you have to know what it stands for." Lanceford
sighed reminiscently. "It began during the banquet that celebrated the
signing of the Agreement which made Niobe a member of the Confederation.
I was the Director of the BEE's Niobe Division at that time. As a matter
of fact, I'd just taken the job over from Alvord Sims. The Old Man had
been ordered back to Terra, to take over a job in the Administration,
and I was the next man in line.
"The banquet was a flop, of course. Like most mixed gatherings involving
different races, it was a compromise affair. Nobody was satisfied. It
dragged along in a spirit of suffering resignation--the Niobians quietly
enduring the tasteless quality of the food, while the Confederation
representatives, wearing unobtrusive nose plugs, suffered politely
through the watered-down aroma and taste of the Niobian delicacies. All
things being considered, it was moving along more smoothly than it had
any right to, and if some moron on the kitchen staff hadn't used tobasco
sauce instead of catsup, we'd probably have signed the Agreement and
gone on happily ever after.
"But it didn't work out that way.
"Of course it wasn't entirely the kitchen's fault. There had to be some
damn fool at the banquet who'd place the bomb where it would do some
good. And of course I had to be it." Lanceford grinned. "About the only
thing I have to say in my defense is that I didn't know it was loaded!"
Perkins looked at him expectantly as Lanceford paused. "Well, don't stop
there," he said. "You've got me interested."
Lanceford smiled good-naturedly and went on.
* * * * *
We held the banquet in the central plaza of Base Alpha. It was the only
roofed area on the planet large enough to hold the crowd of high brass
that had assembled for the occasion. We don't do things that way now,
but fifty years ago we had a lot to learn. In those days, the admission
of a humanoid planet into the Confederation was quite an event. The
VIP's thought that the native population should be aware of it.
I was sitting between Kron Avar and one of the high brass from the
Bureau of Interstellar Trade, a fellow named Hartmann. I had no business
being in that rarefied air, since Kron was one of the two First
Councilors and Hartmann ranked me by a couple of thousand files on the
promotion list. But I happened to be a friend of Kron's, so protocol got
stretched a bit in the name of friendship. He and I had been through a
lot together when I was a junior explorer with the BEE some ten years
before. We'd kept contact with each other ever since. We had both come
up the ladder quite a ways, but a Planetary Director, by rights,
belonged farther down the table. So there I was, the recipient of one of
the places of honor and a lot of dirty looks.
Hartmann didn't think much of being bumped one seat away from the top.
He wasn't used to associating with mere directors, and besides, I kept
him from talking with Kron about trade relations. Kron was busy
rehashing the old days when we were opening Niobe to viscayaculture.
Trade didn't interest him very much, and Hartmann interested him less.
Niobians are never too cordial to strangers, and he had never seen the
BIT man before this meeting.
Anyway, the talk got around to the time he introduced me to vorkum, a
native dish that acts as a systemic insect repellant--and tastes like
one! And right then I got the bright idea that nearly wrecked Niobe.
As I said, there was both Niobian and Confederation food at the banquet,
so I figured that it was a good time as any to get revenge for what my
dog-headed friend did to my stomach a good decade before.
So I introduced him to Terran cooking.
Niobians assimilate it all right, but their sense of taste isn't the
same as ours. Our best dishes are just mush to their palates, which are
conditioned to sauces that would make the most confirmed spice lover on
Earth run screaming for the water tap. They have a sense of the
delicate, too, but it needs to be stimulated with something like liquid
fire before they can appreciate it. For instance, Kron liked Earth
peaches, but he spiced them with horseradish and red pepper.
I must admit that he was a good sport. He took the hors d'oeuvres in
stride, swallowing such tasteless things as caviar, Roquefort and
anchovy paste without so much as a grimace. Of course, I was taking an
unfair advantage of Kron's natural courtesy, but it didn't bother me too
much. He had rubbed that vorkum episode in for years. It was nice to
watch him squirm.
When I pressed him to try an oyster cocktail, I figured things had gone
far enough.
He took it, of course, even though anyone who knew Niobians could see
that he didn't want any part of it. There was a pleading look in his eye
that I couldn't ignore. After all, Kron was a friend. I was actually
about to stop him when he pulled an oyster from its red bath and popped
it into his mouth. There was a 'you'll be sorry' look on his face. I
gestured to a waiter to remove the cocktail as he bit into the oyster,
figuring, somewhat belatedly, that I had gone too far.
The grateful look I got from him was sufficient reward. But then it
happened. Kron stopped looking grateful and literally snatched the
cocktail back from the startled waiter!
He looked at me with an expression of disgust. "The first decent food
thus far," he said, "and you attempt to send it away!"
"Huh?" I exclaimed stupidly. "I didn't want to make you miserable."
"Miserable! Hah! This dish is wonderful! What in the name of my First
Ancestor is it?" His pleased grin was enough like a snarl to make
Hartmann cringe in his chair. Since Kron and I were both speaking
Niobian rather than Confed, he didn't understand what was happening. I
suppose he thought that Kron was about to rip my throat out. It was a
natural error, of course. You've seen a dog smile, and wondered what was
going on behind the teeth? Well, Kron looked something like that. A
Niobian with his dog-headed humanoid body is impressive under any
conditions. When he smiles he can be downright frightening.
I winked at Hartmann. "Don't worry, sir," I said. "Everything's all
right."
"It certainly is," Kron said in Confed. "This dish is delicious.
Incidentally, friend Lanceford, what is it? It tastes something like our
Komal, but with a subtle difference of flavor that is indescribable!"
"It's called an oyster cocktail, Kron," I said.
"This is a product of your world we would enjoy!" Kron said. "Although
the sauce is somewhat mild, the flavor of the meat is exquisite!" He
closed his eyes, savoring the taste. "It would be somewhat better with
vanka," he said musingly. "Or perhaps with Kala berries."
I shuddered. I had tried those sauces once. Once was enough! I could
still feel the fire.
"I wonder if you could ship them to us," Kron continued.
Hartmann's ears pricked up at the word "ship." It looked like an opening
gambit for a fast sales talk on behalf of interstellar trade, a subject
dear to his heart.
But I was puzzled. I couldn't figure it out until I tried one of the
oysters--after which I knew! Some fool had dished them up in straight
tobasco sauce! It took some time before I could talk, what with trying
to wash the fire out of my mouth, and during the conversational hiatus
Hartmann picked up the ball where I dropped it. So I sat by and
listened, my burned mouth being in no condition for use.
* * * * *
"I'm afraid that we couldn't ship them," Hartmann said. "At least not on
a commercial basis. Interstellar freight costs are prohibitive where
food is concerned."
Kron nodded sadly. He passed the oysters to Tovan Harl, his fellow First
Councilor. Harl went through the same reaction pattern Kron had shown.
"However," Hartmann continued, "we could send you a few dozen. Perhaps
you could start a small oyster farm."
"Is this a plant?" Kron asked curiously.
"No, it's a marine animal with a hard outer shell."
"Just like our Komal. We could try planting some of them in our oceans.
If they grow, we will be very obliged to you Terrans for giving us a new
taste sensation."
"Since my tribe is a seafaring one," Harl interjected, "they can be
raised under my supervision until we find the exact methods to propagate
them in our seas."
Hartmann must have been happy to get off the hook. It was a small
request, one that was easy to fulfill. It was a good thing that the
Niobians didn't realize what concessions they could wring from the BIT.
The Confederation had sunk billions into Niobe and was prepared to sink
many more if necessary. They would go to almost any lengths to keep the
natives happy. If that meant star-freighter loads of oysters, then it
would be star-freighter loads of oysters. The Confederation needed the
gerontin that grew on Niobe.
The commercial worlds needed the anti-aging drug more and more as the
exploration of space continued--not to mention the popular demand. Niobe
was an ideal herbarium for growing the swampland plant from which the
complex of alkaloids was extracted.
So Hartmann made a note of it, and the subject was dropped.
I didn't think anything more about it. Kron was happy, Harl was happy,
and Hartmann was feeling pleased with himself. There was no reason to
keep the oyster question alive.
But it didn't die there. By some sort of telepathy the Niobians
scattered along the long tables found out what had been getting talked
about at the upper end.
By this time I was on the ball again. When the orders went in I slipped
a note to the cooks to use tabasco or vanaka on the Niobian orders. It
was fortunate that there was an ample supply of oysters available,
because the banquet dissolved shortly thereafter into an outright oyster
feed. The Niobians dropped all pretense. They wanted oysters--with
vanaka, with tabasco or with Kala berries. The more effete Earth
preparations didn't rouse the slightest enthusiasm, but the bivalve
found its place in the hearts and stomachs of the natives. The oysters
ultimately ran out, but one thing was certain. There was a definite bond
of affection between our two utterly dissimilar species.
The era of good feeling persisted for several hours. There was no more
quiet undertone of polite suffering among our guests. They were enjoying
themselves. The Agreement was signed with hardly an exception being
taken to its clauses and wording.
Niobe became a full member of the Confederation, with sovereign
planetary rights, and the viscaya concentrate began flowing aboard the
ships waiting at the polar bases.
A day later I got orders to start winding up the BEE's installations on
Niobe. The consular service would take over after I had finished....
* * * * *
Lanceford looked at his watch. "Well, we're going to have time. It looks
like they'll be late. Want to hear the rest of it?"
"Naturally," Perkins said. "I certainly wouldn't want you to stop here."
"Well," Lanceford continued, "the next four years weren't much."
* * * * *
We spent most of the time closing down the outpost and regional
installations, but it took longer than I expected what with the
difficulty in getting shipping space to move anything but viscaya
concentrate off the planet. Of course, like any of the Confederation
bureaus, the BEE died hard. With one thing and another, there were still
a lot of our old people left. We still had the three main bases on the
continental land masses in operating condition, plus a few regional
experiment stations on Alpha Continent and the Marine Biology Labs on
Varnel Island. I'd just closed the last regional stations on Beta and
Gamma when Heinz Bergdorf paid me an official call.
Heinz was the senior biologist on Varnel. He was a good looking lad of
Teutonic ancestry, one of those big blond kids who fool you. He didn't
look like a scientist, but his skull held more knowledge of Niobe's
oceans than was good for a man. He would have to unlearn a lot of it
before he took his next job, or so I thought at the time.
Anyway, Heinz came into my office looking like someone had stolen his
favorite fishnet. The expression of Olympian gloom on his beak-nosed
face would have done credit to Zeus. It didn't take any great amount of
brains to see that Heinz was worried. It stuck out all over him. He
draped himself limply in the chair beside my desk.
"We've got troubles, Chief," he announced.
I grinned at him. I knew perfectly well why he was here. Something had
come up that was too big for him to handle. That was Heinz's only fault,
a belief in the omnipotence of higher authority. If he couldn't handle
it, it was a certainty that I could--even though I knew nothing of
either his specialty or his problems. However, I liked the man. I did my
best to give him the fatherly advice he occasionally needed, although he
would have been better off half the time if he hadn't taken it.
"Well, what's the trouble now?" I asked. "From the look on your face it
must be unpleasant. Or maybe you're just suffering from indigestion."
"It's not indigestion, Chief."
"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Tell me so I can worry too."
I didn't like the way he looked. Of course, I'd been expecting trouble
for the past year. Things had been going far too smoothly.
"Oysters!" Bergdorf said laconically.
"Oysters?"
I looked at him incredulously. Bergdorf sat straight up in his chair and
faced me. There was no humor in his eyes. "For God's sake! You
frightened me for a moment. You're joking, I hope."
"Far from it," Bergdorf replied. "I said oysters and I mean oysters.
It's no joke! Just who was the unutterable idiot who planted them here?"
It took a minute before I remembered. "Hartmann," I said. "Of the BIT.
He ordered them delivered at the request of Kron Avar and Tovan Harl. I
suppose Harl planted them. I never paid very much attention to it."
"You should have. It would have been better if they had imported Bengal
tigers! How long ago did this infernal insanity happen?"
"Right after the Agreement was signed, I guess. I'm sure it was no
earlier than that, because Niobians met up with oysters for the first
time at that affair." I still didn't get it, but there was no doubt that
Heinz was serious. I tried to remember something about oysters, but
other than the fact that they were good to eat and produced pearls I
could think of nothing. Yet Bergdorf looked like the end of the world
was at hand. There was something here that didn't add up. "Well, get on
with it," I said. "As far as marine biology is concerned I'm as innocent
as a Lyranian virgin. Tell me--what's wrong with the oysters?"
"Nothing! That's the trouble. They're nice healthy specimens of
terrestrial _Ostrea lurida_. We found a floating limb with about a dozen
spat clinging to it."
"Spat?"
"Immature oysters."
"Oh. Is that bad?"
"Sure it's bad. I suppose I'd better explain," Bergdorf said. "On Earth
an oyster wouldn't be anything to worry about, even though it produces
somewhere between sixteen and sixty million fertile eggs every year. On
Earth this tremendous fertility is necessary for survival, but here on
Niobe where there are no natural enemies to speak of, it's absolutely
deadly!
"Just take these dozen spat we found. Year after next, they'd be
breeding size, and would produce about three hundred million larvae. If
everything went right, some three years later those three hundred
million would produce _nine thousand trillion_ baby oysters! Can you
image how much territory nine thousand trillion oysters would cover?"
I stopped listening right then, and started looking at the map of Niobe
pinned on the wall. "Good Lord! They'd cover the whole eastern seaboard
of Alpha from pole to pole."
Bergdorf said smugly, "Actually, you're a bit over on your guess.
Considering the short free swimming stage of the larvae, the slow
eastern seaboard currents, poor bottom conditions and overcrowding, I
doubt if they would cover more than a thousand miles of coastline by the
fourth year. Most of them would die from environmental pressures.
"But that isn't the real trouble. Niobe's oceans aren't like Earth's.
They're shallow. It's a rare spot that's over forty fathoms deep. As a
result, oysters can grow almost anywhere. And that's what'll happen if
they aren't stopped. Inside of two decades they'll destroy this world!"
"You're being an alarmist," I said.
"Not so much as you might think. I don't suppose that the oysters will
invade dry land and chase the natives from one rain puddle to another,
but they'll grow without check, build oyster reefs that'll menace
navigation, change the chemical composition of Niobe's oceans, pollute
the water with organic debris of their rotting bodies, and so change the
ecological environment of this world that only the hardiest and most
adaptable life forms will be able to survive this!"
"But they'll be self-limiting," I protested.
"Sure. But by the time they limit themselves, they will eliminate about
everything else."
"If you're right, then, there's only one thing to do. We'll have to let
the natives know what the score is and start taking steps to get rid of
them."
"Oh, I'm right. I don't think you'll find anyone who'll disagree with
me. We kicked this around at the Lab for quite a spell before I came up
here with it."
"Then you've undoubtedly thought of some way to get rid of them."
"Of course. That was one of the first things we did. The answer's
obvious."
"Not to me."
"Sure. Starfish. They'll swamp up the extra oysters in jig time."
"But won't the starfish get too numerous?"
"No. They die off pretty fast without a source of food supply. From what
we can find out about Niobe's oceans, there is virtually no acceptable
food for starfish other than oysters and some microscopic animal life
that wouldn't sustain an adult."
"Okay, I believe you. But you still leave me cold. I can't remember
anything about a starfish that would help him break an oyster shell."
Bergdorf grinned. "I see you need a course in marine biology. Here's a
thumbnail sketch. First, let's take the oyster. He has a big muscle
called an adductor that closes his shell. For a while he can exert a
terrific pull, but a steady tension of about nine hundred grams tires
him out after an hour or so. Then the muscle relaxes and the shell gapes
open. Now the starfish can exert about thirteen hundred grams of tension
with his sucker-like tube feet, and since he has so many of them he
doesn't have to use them all at one time. So, by shifting feet as they
get tired, he can exert this pull indefinitely.
"The starfish climbs up on the oyster shell, attaches a few dozen tube
feet to the outside of each valve and starts to pull. After a while the
oyster gets tired, the shell opens up, and the starfish pushes its
stomach out through its mouth opening, wraps the stomach around the soft
parts of the oyster and digests it right in the shell!"