“Watcher will tell me the instant he hears of the next flower reaction. I’ll tube over and try to find out why they go Outside. I suspect today’s buckeye has something to do with it. Busch’s murder is on the same map line as the flower clusters.”
“Taking Busch’s death kind of hard, aren’t you?” commented Bitter.
“It’s not that,” said Val. “It is the flower clusters. IA and MR I can understand. A bucket of mud will stop Inappropriate Activity by eliminating the house dust mite—Molecular Reward can always be withdrawn if it becomes too much of a problem. But I don’t know what causes the flower cluster. I am afraid it may be something new—perhaps epidemic. It would be very serious if we were witnessing a human reaction like the lemming migrations. Imagine, everyone going Outside at once—crushing crops—dying in the actinics.”
Bitter nodded.
Fat Walter’s eyes focused. “It is Olga’s way of cleansing the planet of pagan four-toeds. Olga wants to start over again with Her Children.”
Val didn’t want to disagree with the dying man, but he didn’t think it was fair to ask a citizen to accept a deity that was planning to erase him. Neutral Arthur interrupted.
“Would you like to meet an applicant for Busch’s place in our family?”
Val and Walter turned and saw a very beautiful female standing in the doorway. She was almost as tall as a coweye, and just as well formed. Delicate nose and chin, bright eyes, long lashes, abundant black hair. She smiled with bright painted lips, took a dainty step into the cubicle and opened her tunic. Her body gleamed with pseudo-flesh—glistening pink curves, large symmetrical breasts tipped by prominent areolas, long waist and plump buttocks. Faint scars marked her belly and axillae. She closed her tunic dramatically and stepped back into the doorway. Val swallowed.
“She has a good job,” said Arthur. “Will she do?”
Walter nodded weakly.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” she said effusively—running to his bedside and touching his hand. “I just know I’ll relate well in your meldasms. Your family is just what I’ve been searching for.” She lowered her eyes. “As you can see, I am one of the augmented Venus models—entertainment contract. Channels pay good flavors.”
“Glad to have you, Venus,” gasped Walter.
Her smile faded as she studied Walter’s face more closely—transverse fissures at the angles of the mouth, pink vascular eyes, flaking nose.
“Open your mouth—please,” she said.
Magenta tongue.
She pressed a thumb into his left foot—denting the edematous tissues.
“Lost the feeling in your legs?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Hands tingle and burn? The deficiency state has really got a hold on you this time,” smiled Venus. She patted his parakeratotic cheek and walked to the dispenser. “Know just what you need.” She ordered thick barley soup, wheat germ biscuit and a B-complex tonic. The machine took several minutes to check her credits and then issued the items. Venus called Dee Pen over and showed her how to serve it.
“Offer him the tonic first. The alcohol might perk up his appetite. Crumble up the biscuit. Sprinkle it on the broth like croutons. Spoon it into him. Make him eat it all, if you can. Now that we are family, my flavors can feed his enzyme systems.”
During the weeks that followed, Val labored in SPC mopping up rose-water stains. Flower clusters continued to occur sporadically, but he always arrived on the scene too late. Tubeways were slow. Actinics killed the unprotected Nebish in less than six hours. The dead could not tell him why they went flower.
Augmented Venus and Dee Pen poured barley, yeast and wheat germ into Walter until his toes wiggled. Strength returned to his old hands.
Watcher relayed a callgram to Val. It came from a city on the dark continent—ten thousand miles away. A buckeye sighting. His Sagittarius rank helped him obtain a permit for a hobby Hunt. He packed his Cl-En suit, helmet, archery gear and staple foodstuffs, and set out for a long tubeway journey.
Only three of the undersea conduits were operational, so he had an eighteen-hour delay at the coast. After he adjusted to the press of the crowd, he was able to enjoy the view. On the shelf there were still many transparent spots on the walls. He studied the bright, empty waters overhead. Nothing big enough to see. The sea food chain had been broken a long time ago. Below he saw only brownish rocks with an occasional tag of brown algae or a tiny mussel. Deeper ocean was dark. Again barren.
After twelve tubeway changes and more delays, he arrived at the city where the sighting was made. The local Watcher, an elderly twenty-seven-year-old, nodded. Yes, there had been a sighting. No, it was not a buckeye. It was a coweye, and she was up there now—eating their crops. Val started to unpack.
“I wouldn’t be too anxious to go out there if I were you, sonny,” he cackled.
“Why?” asked Val.
“She’s a big ’un.”
Val sat down and reviewed the optic records. She was smaller and younger than the one he had encountered while tracking Tinker. He was confident.
“Anyone could handle her,” boasted Val. “One shot from this, and she’ll fall into reflex hibernation. I’ll just slice into her left carotid. Easy trophy.”
“Reflex hibernation?” said the Watcher, scratching his chin whiskers. “Now, can’t say I’ve ever heard of that before.”
“Come along—watch on the remote,” invited Val.
The sunny gardens appeared shadowy and gray with the helmet on step-down. The Cl-En suit was fully charged—cooling well. He sipped water as he stalked. The quarry was supposed to be a mile away, but without a wrist detector he couldn’t be sure. Bow ready, he crept through dense vegetation. He saw her.
She was about a hundred yards away, sitting among low berry bushes—munching. No cover for him there. He began to circle the patch in the taller triple-crop. A spidery Harvester danced among the bushes making distracting noises. At fifty yards he decided he had a clear shot through a screen of mint leaves. It was near the limits of bowshot range for his weight bow, but he was counting on her to hibernate. He propped his second arrow on the case, planning on getting two shots off before she realized he was there. She was sitting with her right shoulder towards him. He put one arrow in the air and renocked the second. Too high. She heard it arc into the foliage. Jumping up, she turned to run. The second arrow struck her solidly in the back—over the left scapula. The impact was loud. She reached around with her right hand and pulled out the dangling shaft. He fumbled for a third arrow. She charged toward him. The bow slipped from nervous gloved fingers. He pulled his knife.
The coweye crunched in Val. His right forearm and two ribs snapped when he bounced off her heavy frame. His sensorium clouded. Optics recorded a succubus ride.
Val’s trip through semiconsciousness became more painful. His optic fibers pulsed with a red octopus of retinal blood vessels. Retinal pigments bleached. Skin burned. He awoke to an orange world without contrasts. Cool earth touched his back while the blazing sun leaned on his chest. He tried to cover his face, but his right arm fell flail. His left arm moved, covering his eyes and bringing a reassuring darkness. The heat rapidly blistered his skin. He felt the blisters grow, burst and begin to peel. Screaming, he tried to sit up. Rib fragments stabbed his lungs, throwing him back down. The sharp bone spicules prevented him from screaming again.
Abruptly his orange boiling world became cool and dark as nervous Meditecks threw a wet blanket over him. A balloon splint was wrapped around his right arm and painfully inflated. He was placed face down on a stretcher and jogged back into the shaft cap.