John D. MacDonald
The White Fruit of Banaldar
Ever since the first of our arboreal ancestors studied and understood the function of a pitcher plant, or E, perhaps a Venus fly-trap, the idea of a vegetable growth which could and would entrap and absorb a human has been one of the well-springs of nightmare. For some reason the thought of becoming breakfast food for an outrageous orchid or perhaps an overbloated sweet potato holds more intrinsic horror than the fangs of the tiger or the tentacles of the kraaken.
Since such plants are uncommon, if indeed they exist at all, upon Earth, it is perhaps natural for imaginative authors to envision them as existing upon alien planets. Furthermore, the mere removal of such growths across a few parsecs of space does nothing to remove the immediacy of their terror, a fact which Mr. MacDonald makes extremely evident. —The Editor
The auctioning of the five planets took place in the quiet main lounge of the Transgalactic Development in the corporation’s new and glistening building at the corner of Reforma and Insurgentes in Mexico City, capital of the world.
For Timothy Trench, ex-employee of Transgalactic, sitting tense and expectant in a back row seat waiting for the auction to begin, it was the end of one part of life, the beginning of a new. He touched his pocket and felt the reassuring bulge of the wallet.
In the wallet, crisp as a celery kiss, was the cashier’s check. It was the hour that marked the end of five long years of planning. That check for two thousand mil-pesos was the result of pleading, begging, demanding — arguing the others down.
Five years before Timothy Trench had been a member of the habilitation crew which Transgalactic had put on the surface of the third of the five planets. At that time it had been known by a number. Now its name was Banaldar. In the hot harsh winds, in the drifting sand, in the salt-crusted seas, Timothy saw what he had been looking for.
Only a visionary’s mind could have worked that way. Through the long months of building the power source, of starting the long slow process of oxygenation that would bring to Banaldar a cycle of seasons, a climate fit for man, Timothy had pictured the rolling hills clad in green, the river beds filled once more, the breezes gentle and full of the smell of growing things.
During the last month, after all the soil tests were in, they had brought down the torrential rains and then, low and fleeting, the aircraft had spread billions of seeds in thousands of varieties in the long-dead soil of Banaldar. The small animals were released and the habilitation crew left, taking Timothy along — leaving his dreams behind.
The lounge was filling up. He looked around, saw the agents of overpopulated areas, the buying agents of the industrial combines, the agents of the speculators who clawed into the crust of far places. They would be due for a surprise.
He remembered the look of Banaldar when he had last seen it. The only trace of the life that had once been there were the enormous trees — long dead. They dwarfed the redwoods of Earth and their bark was like wrought iron, so grooved and striated that a bold man could climb three hundred feet to the lowest limbs. Timothy had climbed and looked out over the world that he vowed would once be his.
It had taken five years to make certain that it would be his. He knew that one day Transgalactic would put the five planets up for auction. Two thousand young people were behind the crisp check in Timothy’s billfold. Slowly and relentlessly he had sold them his dreams.
A world to call your own — a beautiful Earth-size planet with rolling seas and gentle green hills — a place to become home, to raise children in, to set up the sort of society that Earth had long lacked and sadly needed. Maybe — maybe — it was the chance mankind had been waiting for. A thousand years would tell.
Some of those who had pleaded to join the group Timothy had turned down, regretfully but firmly. Others had been so desirable that, even though they could contribute next to nothing, he had spent months convincing them they should come.
It is no small thing to ask a man to move across space to a new world. But some dreams cannot be denied.
The auctioneer moved quietly to the front of the lounge and all conversation stopped.
Even with the amplifiers his voice was so low as to be difficult to hear. “Today, gentlemen, we are auctioning off the five planets of Epsilon Aurigae, a convenient fifty-two light years from Earth.
“Those of you who have attended other auctions are familiar with our system. All bidding must open at our stated figure, which is just sufficient to cover our development expense plus a reasonable profit percentage. These five planets are the most desirable offered in recent months, all of them close enough to Earth-size to obviate gravitational difficulties, all of them quickly adjusting to our habitational procedures.
“There are three other planets circling the sun in question, two of them too close to be made livable and one too far out. The five will be offered for sale in the order of their distance from the sun. You have all had an opportunity to look over the charts, specifications and space photographs.
“The first planet has been named, in our literature, Caenaral. The minimum bid is eight hundred and eight mil-pesos. I am bid nine hundred. Nine hundred is the bid. Nine twenty-five is the bid.
“Worlds for sale, gentlemen. You will make no mistake on any one of these planets. Mineral concentrations are high. Nine hundred and fifty, fifty, fifty, seventy-five, one thousand. I hear one thousand...”
The bidding went on. Timothy Trench slouched in his chair and the auctioneer’s voice faded from his consciousness. He thought of other things. The first city, not really a city, must be where the great river emptied into the largest sea. They must not permit ugliness. For a long time the ship they traveled in must be their base.
The first planet was knocked down for one thousand seven hundred and sixty mil-pesos. The second one, less desirable, went for thirteen hundred milpesos. Timothy came quickly out of his dreams as he heard the man speak at last of Banaldar.
His strategy was firm in his mind. Leave the bidding alone — let it climb to where the bidding began to slow down — wait until the last moment and then put in a bid a full hundred mil-pesos higher.
He sat with his fingernails biting into his palms. He was a tall man of thirty with coarse ginger-colored hair, with eyes used to probing vast distances. The bidding soared quickly to thirteen hundred and fifty, then began to slow down. As he was getting ready to put in his bid it gathered new momentum and went rapidly up to sixteen hundred and twenty-five. One of the chemical outfits made it sixteen thirty.
“I have been bid sixteen hundred and thirty. Do I hear forty? Sixteen hundred and thirty. Going for sixteen hundred and thirty. Going for—”
“Seventeen hundred and fifty!” Timothy shouted.
The auctioneer peered at Timothy, recovered his aplumb. “The young man has made a bid of seventeen hundred and fifty. Going for—”
“I bid nineteen hundred,” a thick voice said. Timothy gasped and turned quickly. A heavily bearded man had bid the new figure. His clothes were rumpled and soiled.
“Two thousand!” Timothy said with a thin note of panic in his voice.
“Twenty-one hundred,” the man said, his voice the slow and measured note of doom.
“Going for twenty-one hundred. Going, going, GONE to Mr... uh—”
“I am Leader Morgan of the Free Lives,” the rumpled heavy man said proudly.
“Oh? Yes, of course — the Free Lives,” the auctioneer said. “You have the funds with you, of course.”
“Hah!” Morgan said. “I notice you don’t ask these others. But you ask me. Ruth! Harriet! Take him the money.”