Scott Mackay - Phytosphere

“It’s just that… my kids.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Glenda.”

“Then maybe after today—”

“I’m thinking of moving everybody up to 3C. To the single rooms. Everybody’s too spread out now.

I’m going to shut down the elevators and barricade the stairwells. We’ll put all the food in the sterile room. If those kids come…” He trailed off, not finishing his thought.

“How long do you think the food’s going to last?”

He shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Maybe another ten days.”

“Do you need help moving people? I could stay if you want.”

“Go to your children. Leave this cart to me.”

“Can I charge my car one last time?”

“You don’t have to ask. And you can come back and recharge it any time.”

She gave the cart to Whit, and hugged him.

She then negotiated the dark corridors with her flashlight.

She went to the dispensary and took all the asthma medicine she could find.

Next she went to the garage and charged her car. She checked the gauge on the generator and saw that it was good for another fifteen charges.

She drove the car herself—no satellite connections to drive the car for her anymore—and wondered if she would ever have to worry about getting another job again.

Having told everybody in the mayor’s office of his defection, Dr. Luke Langstrom now sat on the edge of his seat, elbows resting on the table, his upper lip hoisted in a tight smile, his blue eyes sitting like insensible marbles behind his narrowed eyelids. Gerry had that old familiar sensation that, while he had been fogging his brain with the ether of his own confused musings, someone else had comprehended the situation with the crispness of a high-powered microscope and had then pulled the rug out from under his feet.

He glanced at Malcolm Hulke, gauging the mayor’s reaction. The mayor gazed at the Martian with wide, perplexed eyes. Then it was over to Mitch Bennett, the AviOrbit representative. Mitch’s lips had twisted into a tremulous pout, and he looked like a sensitive schoolboy who had just been teased beyond endurance.

Ian Hamilton, smelling of last night’s drunk and sporting his rawhide cowboy hat, had his unshaven chin thrust forward and his brow set in an angry frown. “That’s the biggest bullshit story I’ve ever heard, Luke. Did Neil Thorndike put you up to this?”

The Martian shifted. “I won’t deny that Dr. Thorndike’s signature was on the drop. I’m honored that such a distinguished scientist thinks he can put my modest talents to good use.”

“So have they confirmed through genetic analysis that the chromosomal makeup of the xenophyta carapace might in fact be derived from the Martian specimens you’ve studied?” asked Gerry, wanting only to find out what he could.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Luke, we’re a team,” said Ian. “Just the other day you were telling me how you were personally behind Gerry a hundred percent.”

“I am. And I wish Gerry the best of luck.”

“Why can’t you discuss the carapace with us?” asked the mayor, his tone sounding as if he had bitten a lemon.

“The National Science Foundation Task Force on the Phytosphere thinks it’s better if we keep our research confidential. They prefer I use the American Legation’s drop system now.”

The mayor fought hard to disguise his disappointment. “I guess we can’t stop you.”

“The smug sons of bitches,” said Ian. “Gerry, you should send Neil a drop and tell him to butt out. He realized you had a good thing, so he came in and took over, like he always does.”

“I don’t look at it that way, Ian. We’re all in this together.”

But Ian wasn’t satisfied. “What did he give you, Luke? I know how Neil works. What’s on offer here?”

The Martian scientist shifted again. “Can’t we be civilized about this? Gerry’s right. Ultimately, we’re all trying to do the same thing. Defeat the phytosphere.”

“What Neil can’t steal, he always tries to buy,” said Ian. “What was your price? Everybody’s got a price.”

Langstrom frowned again. “The point is, this whole lunar effort is ridiculous. You have no money. You have no resources. And your chief scientist”—he nodded at Gerry—“is stalled in his primary research.

I’m not even convinced his primary research should be the main focus. I think the flagella will ultimately prove to be a side issue. Who cares if they behave one way in the lab, and differently when they’re in the phytosphere? I don’t think it matters.” The Martian’s tone grew defensive. “You’ve forgotten the most basic scientific principle, Gerry, that of Occam’s razor. The simplest theory is the best theory. All I can see of your research so far is that you’re trying to complicate—unnecessarily—what is really a simple problem. Take a page from your brother. The thing’s an organism. Therefore, it can be killed. And yes, it’s an interesting phenomenon to see the flagella behave differently in different environments. But solving that problem has no ultimate value, at least not in terms of destroying the phytosphere.”

In spite of himself, Gerry couldn’t help feeling hurt. “And my brother’s approach is so much better?”

“I can only speak in the broadest general terms because of the confidentiality issue, but in the wide spectrum of things, yes, it is.”

“And in the wide spectrum of things, what is he generally planning to do?”

Langstrom frowned. “For one thing, he has a plan. You don’t. I would even go so far as to call his plan a procedure; one with clear directions and logical steps that technicians and military personnel can follow.

Step one is to identify the chemical and biological makeup of the phytosphere, which he’s done, right down to mapping its entire genome, something we on the Moon don’t have the equipment or expertise to do. Step two is to break down its defenses; in other words, find a way through its carapace. That’s where I come in with my omniphage. Step three is the introduction of a comprehensive toxic agent that will ultimately prove fatal to the phytosphere.”

Gerry shook his head. “You see, Luke, that’s where I disagree with my brother’s approach. I’ve studied all kinds of phytoplankton. They develop quick resistance to any kind of toxin and, in many cases, certain toxins will promote their growth. And let’s not forget, a toxin will be the first thing the Tarsalans look for.

I mean, my God, here’s a race whose individual members have two brains apiece. It’s been proven by scientific study that they outthink humans again and again. And you honestly believe they haven’t thought of a toxic approach yet? You can’t fool the Tarsalans.”

“From what I understand, your brother doesn’t plan on fooling the Tarsalans. He plans on fooling the organism itself. And I believe he’s going to be successful. Your brother’s a brilliant scientist. He has the greatest minds behind him. He has the full resources of the United States at his disposal. He’s had wide experience at managing large projects. Unlike you, he’s a goal-oriented problem-solver. I’m sorry, Gerry, but you sit inside a problem, look around, admire the view, meditate…and nothing concrete gets done. I’ll admit that perhaps at some time in the future, when this crisis is over, the flagella might bear a closer, if extraneous, investigation. But right now we have to focus on destroying the phytosphere, not just staring at it as if it were an intriguing plaything.”

“This toxin is going to turn out to be the dead end, Luke, mark my words. And I don’t see how you can’t recognize the importance of the flagella. The flagella are where we should begin, because they’re the only part of the xenophyta’s body that function outside the carapace. And if I were going to use a toxin, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to bite through the carapace with an omniphage. I would go directly for the flagella apertures, because the apertures offer an already existing means of ingress. Neil thinks he can bash his way in anywhere. He’s always favored the frontal assault.”