“Damn! But there I go again, torn two ways. We’re here, and we must eat. Not us especially, not the thirteen-member crew of Starspike Explorer, but those who will follow us to settle Ophiuchus VIII, which of the several worlds we and our four sister ships have visited so far is by far the most eminently suitable for colonization. So says Michael Gilchrist, and of course he’s right. No terraforming necessary, or very little, and plenty of fresh water. At 30.9 ft per sec2, the equatorial gravity is just a touch less than Earth standard, and we have an acceptable atmosphere. Also—and most importantly—the soil will support a good many terrestrial trees, cereals, and other food crops; which in turn will support plenty of animal species. As a result, the barest minimum of terraforming that’s required will be achieved ‘naturally.’ And yet more importantly—far more importantly—there already exists an ample supply of food here….
“…Which brings us back to the tree ferns.
“Gilchrist was sitting on a rock well back from the action, outside the range of the javelins. Actually, they are more like darts or small arrows; it was me who dubbed them javelins after the definition from my antique dictionary: ‘javelin, a throwing spear.’ And for a fact the tree ferns do throw them. I was just in time to witness that for myself when one of Gilchrist’s crew fell victim to the fact. He was standing arms akimbo within the radius of fire, from which location he watched three colleagues at work, when suddenly he yelped, jumped six inches in the air, and fell on his backside clutching his right knee. And:
“‘Shit!’ the squat, bearded Gilchrist grumbled. ‘See that? Took a javelin in the knee. That’s another man in the sick bay, knee swollen up like a puffball for at least a week, maybe ten days. Three down and three to go. Shit!’
“I was surprised because Gilchrist’s man was wearing protective clothing—his ‘armor’—no less than me and Gilchrist. But as his man came staggering and cursing, the exobioecologist explained: ‘The barbs on the tips of these things are flexible, a sort of cartilage. Instead of bouncing off this light-weight armor they slither along it into the first available joint.’
“‘A typical example of non-sentience?’ I lifted an eyebrow at him. I knew that I wasn’t only wrong but that I also exacerbated matters by enjoying all of this, of course. Indeed, that was the point of my remark: it pleased me to irritate him.
“‘A simple response to stimuli!’ He snapped. ‘Also, it’s a typical example of exoevolution. These little armadillo things that chew on the tree ferns—these rat-sized woodlice—they are armor-plated too. Now answer me this: why do blackberries have thorns, eh?’
“‘Earth brambles?’ I shrugged. ‘To keep the birds off?’
“He shook his head. ‘Birds eat the fruit, carry the seeds, shit them out miles away so propagating the plant. No, in point of fact the bramble favors birds like flowers favor bees. The thorns are to ward animals off—including men—and keep them from trampling the vines. Much like your Mediterranean, squirting bloody cucumbers.’
“‘So what do I know?’ I said. ‘You’re the ship’s exobioecologist!’
“‘Would be,’ he said, ‘if people would stop interfering and bloody well let me get on with it!’
“Pale behind his visor and limping quite badly, Gilchrist’s wounded man reached us. ‘Goddamn thing shot me!’ he said unnecessarily, staring at his leg where five or six inches of tufted javelin protruded from his armor’s knee joint.
“‘This may hurt a little,’ Gilchrist told him, and without pause stooped to yank it out. The barb was stained red but the javelin was already wilting, drooping like a piece of wet spaghetti. The injured man shuddered and went paler still.
“‘Go on back to the ship,’ Gilchrist went on. ‘Mildly poisonous, but Doc will give you a shot and you’ll be okay. Can you make it on your own? Good.’ And off the man staggered.
“Meanwhile one of his colleagues in the clump had commenced attacking the offending tree fern—with a flamethrower, of all things!
“‘What on earth are you doing?’ I screamed at them, as the tree fern began wailing and burst into flames.
“‘Nothing, not on Earth,’ Gilchrist answered for them.
“I might have rushed forward but the air was suddenly full of javelins. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you can punish the thing!’ I yelled at them, stamping my foot. ‘It’s only a plant!’ So why was I so inflamed?
“‘Natural reaction,’ Gilchrist told me, chewing his lip and looking just a little guilty. And for a moment I thought he was talking about my reaction. But no, he wasn’t. ‘Stinging nettles in your garden,’ he went on, ‘you cut ’em down. Poison-ivy, you burn it out. Hurt, you take revenge.’ And he shrugged. ‘Natural reaction.’
“By now the whole clump was wailing; maybe three dozen tree ferns, lashing the air with their fronds, releasing myriad javelins, sending a horde of squealing woodlice (which in fact are six-legged mammals that on the run look like nothing so much as chitin-plated meerkats, except they are herbivores and Ophiuchus VIII’s dominant life-form) tumbling for their lives.
“But I had seen more than enough. Turning away, I caught up with Gilchrist’s injured man and helped him back to the ship. I couldn’t help hoping, though, that his shots were going to hurt like hell….”
VI
SESSION SEVEN.
Subject: James Goodwin,
former crew member United Earth Station IV.
Object: following eight weeks of (apparently) successful psychotherapy applied in order to eliminate a severe psychological blockage, to interview shuttle pilot Goodwin in relation to his experiences following abduction by unknown inimical extraterrestrial intelligences.
Interrogating Officer:
Dr. Gardner L. Spatzer,
Space Central, Arizona.
12th Oct. 2407.
RECORDED INTERVIEW
Dr. S: “Good morning, Jim!”
Goodwin, gloomily: “Yeah, sure.”
Dr. S: “How are you feeling?”
Goodwin, nervous and agitated: “How do you suppose I’m feeling, Doc? Okay, I’ll tell you—I feel like shit! Now maybe you can tell me something: do you intend to stick any more of those needles in me?”
Dr. S: “No, that shouldn’t any longer be necessary—well, depending on your self-control. But if you should become excessively aggressive again…it was for your own good, Jim.”
Goodwin, warily: “Okay, but be honest about it: do you have any needles on you, like right now?”
Dr. S, with a partly suppressed chuckle: “None whatsoever.”
Goodwin: “Good! So I won’t need to fight you off again….”
Dr. S: “Do you feel like talking now, answering some rather important questions?”
Goodwin: “You mean, am I able to talk about it? To tell you what happened to us? To tell the truth, I don’t know…maybe. Do I want to talk about it? Hell no! But I might if you go easy on me. See, it’s like the needles. Why do I fight them? Because if someone had stuck in your veins what they stuck in mine—in ours, mine and Susannah’s—then you’d fight them the same as I do. You say I had a…a what? ‘An extreme reaction?’ Doc, the needles are just a very small part of it. But right now, if you were to show me a pin, a tack, or a nail—almost any-fucking-thing with a sharp point—then I can assure you you’d get the same reaction! I mean, Jesus, it’s…it’s…it’s—”
Dr. S: “It’s okay, Jim! Perfectly okay that you should feel upset. Perfectly natural. But do try to calm yourself down, and believe me when I tell you I understand.”