On the fourth day, after the arrival of the congressional commission, Al Mason was engaged busily in tidying up his hydroponics lab, in anticipation of a visit from Representative Manners later in the day, when his office phone rang.
He picked it up. “Hydroponics. Mason speaking.”
“Al, Commander Henderson here. Think you can stop off at my office for a few minutes?”
“I suppose so, sir. You mean, right now?”
“Yes. Right now, if you’re free.” The commander’s voice sounded oddly tense. Mason hung up, told his assistant he was leaving, and headed for Commander Henderson’s office on the double.
The C.O. looked worried. His face was drawn and weary. The visit was telling on his nerves more than anyone’s.
He said, in a ragged voice, “Al, about an hour ago I took the guests on a tour of the north end of the base. They came across Laboratory 106a.”
Oh, oh, Mason thought sickly. “Yes, sir?”
Henderson flashed a faint smile. “That’s quite an installation you’ve been building in there, Al.”
“It is rather complex,” Mason admitted.
Henderson nodded. The comers of his mouth quirked. “Ah—some of our guests were very interested in it. They wanted to know what function it performed. That’s what Representative Manners asked me particularly—what function it performed.”
“Function, sir?” Mason repeated lamely.
“Yes. Function.” The commander stirred uneasily. “I . . . ah . . . told them it was being used for biological research. They wanted me to be more specific, and I kept getting vaguer, and finally I had to admit that I didn’t know what the damned pile of equipment was supposed to do! So I’m in a bit of hot water now, Al. They seem to have the idea that a Commanding Officer should be aware of every single project being carried on at his base.”
Mason moistened his lips. He said nothing.
The commander continued, “With luck, I can wiggle out of this without too much trouble. But it may turn out to be very damaging. Tell me, Al—just in case they bother me about it again. What is that thing you’ve been constructing in 106a?”
Mason took a very deep breath. When he spoke, his voice came out thin and feeble. “It’s a cow, sir.”
The commander’s double-take was admirably brief. He recovered equilibrium almost at once and said, “Let’s have that again?”
Mason smiled humorlessly. “It’s . . . uh . . . a device for processing cellulose and converting it to nutritive products, sir. Milk, to be precise.”
Henderson was nodding slowly. “A cow. I see, Al. You built a machine that produces milk.”
“Yes, sir. It’s not quite finished, yet.”
“Tell me: why did you feel it necessary to build such a machine?”
“Well . . . uh . . . it was sort of just for fun, sir. A recreational project. Only we didn’t think it was going to use so much equipment, you see, and—” Mason saw the look in Henderson’s eyes, and his voice trailed off.
“O.K., Al,” Henderson said in a rigidly controlled voice. “You built it for him. Well, I’m a mild-tempered man.
I won’t get sore. Just scram, over to the ’ponies chamber, and get to work. If anybody asks you, that thing in 106a is a biological converter. Make up some fancy double-talk. Whatever you do, don’t let any of those congressmen find out that you built that expensive junk pile for the sheer joy of building it. Or that it’s intended to produce milk. We’ll never hear the end of this, if they catch wise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“O.K. Now get.”
Mason got.
The hydroponics man stepped out of Henderson’s office and almost collided with Maury Roberts. The little biochemist started talking at once.
“I’m on my way over to 106a, Al. Bryan just stuck his nose in there and told me that the liver tissue is growing like crazy. I’ll have to trim it back and dispose of the excess . . . Al, is there something wrong?”
“Yeah.”
“You look terrible!”
“I feel terrible.” Mason jerked his thumb back in the general direction of the Administration hut. “The Old Man just had me on the carpet. Seems the visitors snooped their way into the Project Bossie lab this morning and wanted to know what all the hardware was being used for.”
“No.”
“Yeah. Well, the C.O. didn’t know, so he bluffed them. But he doesn’t know how long they’re going to be satisfied with his bluff.”
“Al, this is terrible! What’s going to happen?”
Mason shrugged. “Henderson’ll probably wiggle out of it, but you can bet he’ll come down hard on us once the visitors are gone. He wasn’t at all amused by the whole idea.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Nothing,” Mason said. “Just keep going through the motions. You go over to the lab and trim that liver, if you want to. I’ve got to get back to work.”
Roberts took off for Laboratory 106a at a quick trot. Mason sauntered morosely across the clearing. He stopped, stared up through the vaulting plastic roof of the dome at the night-shrouded Earth that hung in the sky.
Who needed these senators anyway? he asked himself.
Snoopers. Pennywise meddlers. But they were necessary evils, Mason admitted reluctantly. Only now the C.O. was in trouble, and it was a sure bet that once the delegation from Washington had left, there would be merry hell raised around Base Three. Creative independence was one thing; funneling all kinds of costly equipment into a silly enterprise like a synthetic cow was different. And if the truth ever leaked to the Appropriations Committee—
Mason shuddered. He admitted that the cow had gotten somewhat out of hand. But it had simply turned out to be a more complicated job than they had expected, that was all.
Then he frowned. What had Roberts been trying to say? The liver was growing; so he would have to trim off the excess and dispose of it—
Wait a minute!
What Maury Roberts was trimming away was good edible meat. And if the machine could produce meat and milk—heck, Mason thought, it isn’t as useless as it seems! We don’t need to skulk and hide! We’ve invented something downright handy I But—
A sudden cry interrupted his train of thought.
“Hey, All Come here!”
Mason turned slowly. The door of the mess hall was open, and Roily Firestone, Cook First Class, was standing in the opening, arms akimbo. Firestone was grinning.
“What is it, Roily?” Mason grunted.
“Got something for you. Something you’ll like, Al.” Shrugging, Mason walked over. Firestone’s green eyes were alight with some secret glee. Crooking one finger, he led Mason through the mess hall and into the kitchen. “You wait here,” Firestone said.
Mason wondered impatiently what the cook was up to. But he had only a moment to wait. Firestone busied himself at the back of the kitchen and returned almost immediately holding a glass containing a white liquid.
“You’re the one who’s always been griping about the synthetic milk,” Firestone said. “So I figured I’d give you a little treat. Just don’t get me in trouble for it.” Mason took the glass. He sniffed. It smelled like milk. It looked like milk.
“Go on,” Firestone urged. “Drink it.”