Was there anybody else, she wondered, in the whole history of the species, who had tried to make it with a plant?
It was dark when she woke. The fire had died down, and she could see Kellie seated on a log nearby. The flickering light threw moving shadows across her features.
The giant blossom had shown up in her dreams, part terrifying, part exhilarating. For a while she lay quietly, thinking about it, hoping to assign the entire experience to fantasy. But it had happened.
She decided that she would sue the Academy when she got home.
"You awake?" Kellie asked.
"Reluctantly."
She smiled and kept her voice low. "Don't worry about it." And, after a moment: "Was it really that good?"
"How do you mean?"
"You looked as if you were having a great time."
"Yeah. I guess I was." She pulled herself up. "How late is it?" Morgan was directly overhead, getting bigger all the time. Half the giant world was in shadow.
"You're changing the subject."
"What can I tell you, Kellie? I just lost control of everything."
Kellie stirred the fire. Sparks rose into the night. "A big pitcher plant. It's a strange place."
"Yeah, it is."
"It could have happened to either of us. But everyone understands." She looked at Hutch's right arm. "You should be all right in the morning." Apparently during the encounter Hutch had succeeded in getting altogether out of her clothes. She had burns on both legs, her right arm, her pelvic area, waist, breasts, throat, and face. "You were a mess when we brought you back here," Kellie added with a smile.
Hutch wanted to change the subject. "We lost a little time today."
"Not really. We did all right. Randy was done for the day anyhow."
Hutch stared off into the darkness. She could see the outlines of the giant blossoms against the sky. "Randy thinks they have eyes," Kellie said.
She shuddered. Hutch had been assigning the experience to a simple programmed force of nature. But eyes. That made it personal.
"Maybe not exactly eyes," she continued, "but light receptors that are pretty sophisticated. He says he thinks the local plant life is far beyond anything we've seen elsewhere."
Hutch didn't like being so close to them. She felt violated.
"He thinks they may even have a kind of nervous system. He's looked at a couple of the smaller ones. They don't like being uprooted or dissected."
"How do you mean, they don't like it?"
"The parts move."
"They sure do," she said.
The Edward J. Zwick arrived in the Maleiva area without fanfare. Canyon looked at Morgan's World through the scopes, and at Deep-six, and felt sorry for the people trapped on the ground.
Zwick was named for a journalist who'd been killed while covering one of the numerous border wars in South America at the end of the century. Its captain was a thirty-eight-year-old former Peacekeeper named Miles Chastain. Miles was tall, lean, quiet. Something in his manner made Canyon uncomfortable. The man always seemed so serious.
He was, Canyon thought, the sort of person to have on your side if war broke out, but not someone you'd routinely invite for dinner. He had never been able to get close to the captain on the long voyage from Earth.
Emma had complained that Wilfrid, the AI, was better company. Certainly he was friendlier. Her attitude suggested the absurdity of his earlier suspicion that an affair of the heart was being conducted in the midnight corridors of the Zwick.
The captain spent most of his time in the cockpit or in his private quarters. He never initiated conversation unless business called for it. And once they arrived in orbit around Deepsix, there was really little for him to do except await the collision.
His commlink vibrated. It was Emma. "August," she said, "I just overheard an odd conversation between Kellie Collier and Clairveau."
"Really? What about?"
"Clairveau was wondering why they were late getting started.
Kellie Collier told him that Hutchins was resting. That she'd been attacked by a plant."
"By a plant?"
"That's what she said."
XVIII
Put men and women in the same room and everyone's IQ drops thirty-six points. Psychologists have recorded it, tests have shown it, studies leave no doubt. Passion doth make fools of us alt.
— Gregory MacAllister, "Love and Chocolate," Targets of Opportunity
Hours to breakup (est): 140
Lori's matronly image appeared on Nicholson's command screen. The AI was wearing a formal black suit with a white scarf. That was designed to impress him that the business she wished to transact was quite serious. Of course, he knew what it was.
7 think it's a mistake to refuse to help," she said.
"My first duty is the safety of my passengers, Lori."
"The regulations are a bit murky in this situation. In any case, one of your passengers is in extremis. In addition, you have instructions from Corporate to cooperate with any rescue effort."
"That transmission won't be worth a damn if somebody volunteers and gets killed."
"/ quite agree, Captain. But I have to point out that if the current situation does not change, and Mr. MacAllister loses his life, you will be in severe difficulty for having withheld assistance."
"I know."
The only course that might get you through undamaged is to help where you can and hope no one is injured. If that happens…"
Nicholson ran his fingers through his hair. He could not see which course was safer.
"It is not my decision, Captain," she said. "But it is my responsi-
bility to offer counsel. Do you wish me to contact Captain Clairveau?"
Marcel had instructed Beekman to continue working on the extraction plan. He intended to have another try at persuading Nichol-son to help. But he needed to give him time to think about the decision he'd made. Time to fret.
The auxiliary screen began to blink. CAPTAIN NICHOLSON WANTS TO SPEAK WITH YOU.
It was quicker than he'd expected.
"We also need somebody who can rig a remote pump."
"A remote pump?"
"Listen, Erik, I know how all this sounds. But I don't have time to go over everything at the moment. We started late and we've got a lot of ground to cover. Please just trust me for now."
"All right, Marcel. I'll make an announcement at dinner this evening."
"No. Not this evening. That'll be too late. Round up whatever volunteers you can get now. I'll want to talk to them, too. The ones who will help, and that we can use, will come over forthwith."
"My God, Marcel, that's pressing it a bit, isn't it? Are we talking this minute?"
"Yes, we are."
"At least tell me what you're planning to do?"
" We are going to make a skyhook, Erik."
"Bill."
"Yes, Marcel."
"Tomorrow morning we'll take all four ships out to the assembly. Coordinate with the other AIs."
Nicholson got on the Star's public address system, informed his passengers and crew that he knew everyone was aware of the difficulties that had been encountered extracting the landing party from Maleiva HI, but went on to describe them anyway. "We are still endeavoring," he said, "to mount a rescue." He gazed steadily into the lens, imagining himself as an old warrior rallying the troops to victory. "To provide insurance that we succeed," he continued, "we need your help.
"Let me now introduce Captain Clairveau of the Wendy jay, who'll explain what we hope to be able to do. I urge you to listen carefully, and if you feel you can assist, please volunteer.