John Wyndham - The Day of the Triffids

Elsewhere, immense research into the nature, habits, and constitution of the triffid went on. Earnest experimenters set out to determine, in the interests of science, how far and for how long it could walk; whether it could be said to have a front, or could perform its march in any direction with equal clumsiness; what proportion of its rime it must spend with its roots in the ground; what reactions it showed to the presence of various chemicals in the soil; and a vast quantity of other questions, both useful and useless.

The largest specimen ever observed in the tropics stood nearly ten feet high. No European specimen over eight feet had been seen, and the average was little over seven. They appeared to adapt easily to a wide range of climate and soils. They had, it seemed, no natural enemies—other than man.

But there were a number of not unobvious characteristics which escaped comment for some little time. It was, for instance, quite a while before anyone drew attention to the uncanny accuracy with which they aimed their stings, and that they almost invariably struck for the head. Nor did anyone at first take notice of their habit of lurking near their fallen victims. The reason for that became clear only when it was shown that they fed upon flesh as well as upon insects. The stinging tendril did not have the muscular power to tear firm flesh, but it had strength enough to pull shreds from a decomposing body and lift them to the cup on its stem.

There was no great interest, either, in the three little leafless sticks at the base of the stem. There was a light notion that they might have something to do with the reproductive system—that system which tends to be a sort of botanical glory-hole for all parts of doubtful purpose until they can be sorted out and more specifically assigned later on. It was assumed, consequently, that their characteristic of suddenly losing their immobility and rattling a rapid tattoo against the main stem was some strange form of triffidian amatory exuberance.

Possibly my uncomfortable distinction of getting myself stung so early in the triffid era had the effect of stimulating my interest, for I seemed to have a sort of link with them from then on. I spent—or “wasted,” if you look at me through my father’s eyes—a great deal of fascinated time watching them.

One could not blame him for considering this a worthless pursuit, yet later the time turned out to have been better employed than either of us suspected, for it was just before I left school that the Attic & European Fish Oil Company reconstituted itself, dropping the word “Fish” in the process. The public learned that it and similar companies in other countries were about to farm triffids on a large scale, in order to extract valuable oils and juices and to press highly nutritious oil cake for stock feeding. Consequently, triffids moved into the realm of big business overnight.

Right away I decided my future. I applied to the Arctic & European, where my qualifications got me a job on the production side. My father’s disapproval was somewhat qualified by the rate of pay, which was good for my age. But when I spoke enthusiastically of the future he blew doubtfully through his mustache. He had real faith only in a type of work steadied by long tradition, but he let me have my way. “After all, if the thing isn’t a success, you’ll find out young enough to start in on something more solid,” he conceded.

There turned out to be no need for that. Before he and my mother were killed together in a holiday airbus crash five years later, they had seen [he new companies drive all competing oils off the market and those of us who had been in at the beginning apparently well set for life.

One of the early corners was my friend Walter Lucknor. There had been some doubt at first about taking Walter on. He knew little of agriculture, less of business, and lacked the qualifications for lab work. On the other hand, he did know a lot about triffids—he had a kind of inspired knack with them.

What happened to Walter that fatal May years later I do not know—though I can guess. It is a sad thing that he did not escape. He might have been immensely valuable later on. I don’t think anybody really understands triffids, or ever will, but Walter came nearer to beginning to understand them than any man I have known. Or should I say that he was given to intuitive feelings about them?

It was a year or two after the job had begun that he first surprised me.

The sun was close to setting. We had knocked off for the day and were looking with a sense of satisfaction at three new fields of nearly fully grown triffids. In those days we didn’t simply corral them as we did later. They were arranged across the fields roughly in rows—at least the steel stakes to which each was tethered by a chain were in rows, though the plants themselves had no sense of tidy regimentation. We reckoned that in another month or so we’d be able to start tapping them for juice. The evening was peaceful; almost the only sounds that broke it were the occasional rattlings of the triffids’ little sticks against their stems. Walter regarded them with his head slightly on one side. He removed his pipe.

“They’re talkative tonight,” he observed.

I took that as anyone else would, metaphorically.

“Maybe it’s the weather,” I suggested “I fancy they do it more when it’s dry.”

He looked sidelong at me, with a smile.

“Do you talk more when it’s dry?”

“Why should—” I began, and then broke off. “You don’t really mean you think they’re talking?” I said, noticing his expression.

“Well, why not?”

“But it’s absurd. Plants talking!”

“So much more absurd than plants walking?” he asked.

I stared at them, and then back at him.

“I never thought—” I began doubtfully.

“You try thinking of it a bit, and watching them. I’d be interested to hear your conclusions,” he said.

It was a curious thing that in all my dealings with triffids such a possibility had never occurred to me. Pd been prejudiced, I suppose. by the love-call theory. But once he had put the idea into my mind, it stuck. I couldn’t get away from the feeling that they might indeed be rattling out secret messages to one another.

Up to then I’d fancied I’d watched triffids pretty closely, but when Walter was talking about them I felt that Ed noticed practically nothing. He could, when he was in the mood, talk on about them for hours, advancing theories that were sometimes wild but sometimes not impossible.

The public had by this time grown out of thinking triffids freakish. They were clumsily amusing, but not greatly interesting. The company found them interesting, however, It took the view that their existence was a piece of benevolence for everyone particularly for itself. Walter shared neither view. At times, listening to him, I began to have some misgivings myself.

He bad become quite certain that they “talked,”

“And that,” he argued, “means that somewhere in them is intelligence. It can’t be seated in a brain, because dissection shows nothing like a brain—but that doesn’t prove there isn’t something there that does a brain’s job.

“And there’s certainly intelligence there, of a kind. Have you noticed that when they attack they always go for the unprotected parts? Almost always the head—but sometimes the hands. And another thing: if you look at the statistics of casualties, just take notice of the proportion that has been stung across the eyes and blinded. It’s remarkable—and significant.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of the fact that they know what is the surest way to put a man out of action—in other words, they know what they’re doing. Look at it this way. Granted that they do have intelligence; then that would leave us with only one important superiority—sight. We can see, and they can’t. Take away our vision, and the superiority is gone. Worse than that— our position becomes inferior to theirs, because they are adapted to a sightless existence and we are not.”