Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Who, what, date, and wager,” Kibon said in a flat, rasping tone without looking up when Ranjit entered. He was a squat man of indeterminate age, his round face scarred with acne. His hands, the first joint on both little fingers missing, were poised over the keys to make the entry. He wore a janitor’s tabs on a well-worn, dingy red one-piece coverall that had been Barchenkan issue, patched and frayed at cuffs and collar and almost threadbare at the closings.
Ranjit had had dealings with illegal bookmaking operators before and was primed.
“The kid,” he said, using the onstation title awarded Peter Reidinger, “return, within two weeks, ten credits, what’re the odds?”
Kibon glanced up only long enough to read Ranjit’s ID number. He grunted. “New here, arncha? Ten to one against.”
“I’ll take it.”
Ranjit also “took” Kibon’s public thoughts about the kid and the wager as the disguised LEO lieutenant carefully counted the credits, in small denominations, into the meaty, thick-fingered hand Kibon held out. Kibon had no opinions one way or another about the kid. He was aware that Peter was one of them psi-kicks. He’d made money on the wager that the kid wouldn’t hack the black. He was willing to enjoy profit on this bet, too.
“Bert said it’s a winner,” the lieutenant said, imbuing his tone with a wistful hope. Kibon grunted; his thoughts about Bert were uncomplimentary and very wary. Especially since Bert had suddenly taken out of Kibon’s keeping a great deal of credit. Certain other persons—Ranjit caught flashes of their faces—also frequent customers, had suddenly been flush enough to put substantial bets against the kid making it to First Base. Kibon was glad to see the credits returned so quickly to his keeping.
Scrupulously counting the quarters and halves piece by piece, Kibon slipped Ranjit’s credits into a slot to one side of the keypad. Ranjit could hear them hitting others and realized that the entire body of the desk was Kibon’s safe deposit box. The bookie, also listening intently to the sound, thought that he’d better empty it tonight and deposit it. He also inadvertently thought where the deposit was made. Ranjit filed away that information for future reference.
Kibon gave Ranjit a cold stare. “That all?”
Ranjit nodded, bowed humbly, and retreated quickly from the office, bumping into the skinny man who was waiting to enter. Again quick with apologies, Ranjit bowed himself away, down the narrow hall and into a broader corridor. He went into the first toilet area, which reeked mainly of antiseptic, and into a stall where he could make his report unobserved. Iswah granted to every man some small space of privacy at least once a day.
Commissioner?
Yes, Ranjit?
And the lieutenant flashed Boris Roznine the faces he had caught from Kibon’s mind and reported that Bert, although off duty, was not in his
quarters nor did his cellmates know where he was. Boris thanked him and relayed that report to Ottey and Bindra, the Padrugoi security officers in the office with him.
Go on a walkabout, Ranjit, just in case you might come across Flimflam
.
Very good, sir
.
“Do you want me to do some lurking, too, Commissioner?” Cass asked, since she, too, could identify Bert.
“That might not be a bad idea, Cass.”
“An offender can’t get above Ten Deck, or in the Malls without guards,” Ottey said.
Cass smiled and slipped out of the office.
“Could he?” Bindra asked Ottey.
“He’s not
supposed
to have access,” Ottey replied, scowling.
“With someone like Flimflam, one can never be sure,” Boris said mildly, and then asked to view the ID images of all offenders currently on the station. “The janitor staff as well. Flimflam can work a crowd a treat.”
“T
his,” and Ping Yung proudly pressed the entrance plate to his plant kingdom, “is the major Controlled Environment Life Support System, CELSS on Padrugoi. There are other, smaller units elsewhere throughout the Station.”
His guests followed him onto the balcony that overlooked the many-leveled hydroponic unit that was a deep well in the main stem of the Station. Amariyah gasped, hands crossed over her chest, blue eyes enormous as she saw, to her, a horticulturist’s heaven. The air was slightly humid and redolent with hints of fertilizing substances. Dorotea was impressed by its compactness and the amazing variety of recognizable plants in the tanks on the levels below. She had not given much thought to how air was purified on Padrugoi, nor how it managed to feed its population on a daily basis. She’d heard enough about the problem of fuel and supply, but not much about feeding folks, though Peter had told her the food “wasn’t that bad.”
Rhyssa watched the reactions of her two gardening enthusiasts and smiled. It was worth the trip just to see their faces.
They were not the only ones in the unit. Figures moved about this and the lower levels, checking the flow of nutrients into the hundreds,
perhaps thousands of tanks. Rhyssa knew enough about growing things to recognize certain foliage and identify the edibles produced. Carrots and radishes were very obvious but their inclusion surprised her and she was about to comment when Amariyah pointed to the tank beside her.
“You’re growing
Lycopersicum esculentum
in space?”
“Yes, indeed,” Ping said, beaming at her. “Tomatoes are, of course, very nutritious, containing Vitamin C and being the basis for many recipes. How do you know the Latin name for them?”
“It is important to know such things if I wish to become a hydroponic gardener and work on the Station, too,” Amariyah replied with as serious an expression as her tone of voice. “What varietals do you have? What does best on the Station in the tanks? Bush or cordon?”
Rhyssa had no trouble in “hearing” Ping Yung’s amazement at such questions from a youngster but he was also delighted to have someone so knowledgeable to speak to, whatever her age. A nice man, in many ways as eagerly innocent as her ward.
“Amariyah is intensely interested in gardening,” she said.
“That is easy to see,” Ping replied with a little bow and held out his hand to Amariyah. “We have both bush and cordon. For the most part, we cultivate Plumito and Tigarella in the bush; Mirabelle and Dombito in the cordon. But we vary them with cultigens.”
“Apples?” Rhyssa asked, spotting that unmistakable fruit, trained to grow against the curving wall.
“Yes, indeed, apples contain essential potassium,” Ping replied. “We’d prefer bananas but we don’t have the space for such trees as they grow to a height we can’t accommodate. Admittedly plantains would suit more of the resident personnel and we’re trying to develop a true dwarf but without success yet. Most of what we grow here serves a dual purpose, you see: oxygen purification as well as fresh produce for minimum dietary requirements. We must have cultivars in all the ranges that do not generally exceed forty centimeters. We even have wheat, a cultigen that’s only twenty to twenty-four centimeters.”
“Wheat?” Dorotea exclaimed as Ping guided them around the balcony to the spiral stairs to the lower levels.
“Yes, wheat,” he said almost fondly. “It’s a great oxygen generator. Ten square meters grows enough for one person’s oxygen—for two at full growth—and, harvested, it’s made into flour, of course.”
“That’s
Ipomoea batatas,
” Amariyah said as she stepped onto the lower level and pointed to the tanks of thriving club-shaped leaves.
“Indeed they are sweet potatoes,” Ping said, grinning. “We eat the tubers and use the foliage the same way we do spinach.”
“Which type? Ceylon
Basella alba
or
Spinacia oleracea?
” asked Amariyah.
Rhyssa and Dorotea were hanging behind the two and exchanged understanding grins.
Your student is showing off
, Rhyssa said.
So long as he doesn’t require me to have the same encyclopedic memory. I’ve forgotten most of my Latin
, Dorotea replied with a wistful sigh.
“We plant both types of spinach in cut-and-cut-again tanks,” Ping replied.
“I wouldn’t have expected the Station to have
Brassica oleracea,
” Dorotea commented in a casual tone, as they made their way down the steps to the next level.
It’s one of the few names I remember
.
Good on you!
“Oh, we couldn’t get along without them. We’ve the Greensleeves, loose leaves that don’t grow too tall. Spivoy and Spitfire are within the outer height limit, but it’s mainly the loose leaves,” Ping went on.
“Is this unit limited to Temperate Zone planting.” Amariyah asked.
Ping glanced back up at the older women, raising his eyebrows over her intelligent queries.
“Yes. We also have tropical, twelve-hour-day-length climates that the
Arachis hypogaea
and
Cocoyams
require.”
“Peanuts and taro root?” Amariyah said, with a lift of her own eyebrows.
“We try to produce the varieties that appeal to the various elements of our multiethnic population. Of course, the protein we use can be flavored and shaped to be indistinguishable from what it imitates. Chicken, beef, seafood, even the more exotic venison, ostrich, and kangaroo.”
“Ahhhh,” and Amariyah dropped his hand to stand in front of the quadrant sown to one crop, its lush green hiding the tank that had nourished it. “Oryza!” She could not resist touching the long stalks, carefully since the rice was close to being harvested.
Ping Yung pointed across the atrium. “And our special cultigen of
Triticum.
”
What’s that?
Rhyssa asked Dorotea.
Wheat!
‘Above the wheaten plain,’
Rhyssa quoted.
Wrong!
Dorotea replied quickly.
It’s fruited plain, not wheaten. It should be the fruited plane
above
if you’re referring to Padrugoi’s crop! But ‘amber waves of grain’ are mentioned in the song
, she conceded.
I yield
, Rhyssa countered.
Dorotea rolled her eyes.
During the rest of the tour, Rhyssa and Dorotea listened and watched. Both were delighted by the rapport between Amariyah and the young hydroponic specialist. Once he realized how much the girl already knew, how well read she was, he was more than willing to expand and encourage her to access additional programs on Teacher that would improve her chances of securing a hotly contested position on the Padrugoi CELSS.
He even showed her the special seedling chambers, small alcoves branching off the main facility. As was her fashion, she crooned over the young plants, stroking a tendril here, with delicate fingers righting a drooping sprout there.
“What is your success rate with seedlings?” Amariyah asked at her most scholarly.
Rhyssa sighed.
Dorotea shot her a look.
You don’t suppose she’ll try to increase his success factor, do you?
If she does, will we know?
Rhyssa asked in an equally rhetorical tone.
She might at that. Just look at her! She didn’t touch Chester as gently when he was a baby
.
Is she making a benediction or a pass of her as yet undiscovered Talent? I don’t feel—wait a minute
, and Dorotea held up her hand. Then she gave her head an exasperated shake.
Just like my mother
.
Amariyah is a micropsychic?
She is if I have any sensitivity at all
. Dorotea now gave a snort of disgust.
And if we put an Incident net on her while she gardens, it’d only inhibit her. Your grandfather tried so hard to catch Mother at it …
Knowing what her grandfather thought Ruth Horvath did in her micro-Talented way, Rhyssa stifled her giggle. Dorotea glared at her and then grinned like a mischievous female much younger than her actual age.
Well, your grandfather really had hoped that Mother would be able to develop the therapeutic touch healing
, Dorotea added.
———
R
hyssa was saved from an overdose of Latin, genetic selection, yield optimization, and cultivation management by the appearance of Yeoman Nicola Nizukami, coming to guide them to their luncheon appointment with the admiral.
Amariyah was loath to leave Ping Yung but he finally terminated the occasion by reminding her, ever so gently, that this was his shift and he must get back to his plants.
“I’ll tell you how the seedlings do, Amariyah,” he said as a final promise to her.
No sooner were they in the lift to the Control level than Amariyah heaved a great sigh.
“I will return,” she murmured.
Threat or promise?
Dorotea asked.
Knowing the determination of that young lady, both. Let’s do some discreet listening, shall we?
Since their visit had been so expeditiously arranged, it was unlikely that the presence of five parapsychics upstation had reached scuttlebutt. Rhyssa was of two minds on that discretion: she would have liked to sample reactions to their presence and perhaps catch other biases, but now she felt free, legitimately, to catch the prevailing mental climate of the Station. So she and Dorotea unshielded their minds, sampling the general tone of those passing them in the corridors.
Mostly people were concerned about their present duties or wondering about rest period entertainment. Neither telepath caught anything untoward: and only one officer was puzzled as to how the Limo had arrived at First Base well before its estimated time of arrival. Had it been testing the long awaited “new drive”?
Who’s thinking that?
Dorotea asked.
A senior grade lieutenant. Oh, it’s Madlyn’s crush—Dash
, Rhyssa responded.
And he thinks of himself as ‘Dash,’ too. He’s a comm officer so he would probably know about it in the line of his duty
.
He didn’t hear about it from Maddie, did he?
And Dorotea’s tone was stern.
She doesn’t come into his mind
.
She’d be annoyed about that!
Dorotea was most amused.
“This way, ladies,” Nicola said, palming open a door and stepping aside for them to enter.