It’s definitely not weather, like I first thought.”
“And as for the hydrogen sulfide thing? Come on, Gerry. Let’s try to be positive. Give me some good old Moon-spirited attitude.”
Gerry shook his head. “Malcolm, science isn’t a matter of positive or negative attitude. It’s simply a matter of…careful observation. You don’t want to cloud things up with any kind of attitude.”
They brought Gerry a cot and he stayed at the observatory around the clock. All the good food was gone, and he ate emergency rations, what the Moon had on hand in case of war, famine, or political unrest on Earth: mostly soup packs, rice cakes, and a dozen different pill supplements.
Members of the committee drifted in and out to watch the monitors, and Gerry could tell from the tightness at the corners of their eyes that they were anxious, still rooting for his brother, but nervous because it seemed to be taking so long.
Mitch Bennett came in and made a show of checking over the equipment, but his eyes kept drifting to the monitors, his small lips pursing, his brow settling. He seemed angry at the shroud. He finally left after saying in a sullen tone, “It’s like watching a piece of cheese ripen.”
The mayor came and went in various states of sobriety—and it wasn’t funny, because Gerry knew what it was like to be a drunk—always smelling of booze, for the most part holding it together but then slipping up with a slurred word or two, running off to the observatory washroom for a quick nip, joking about what they were going to do when all the booze ran out, and finally staring at the main monitor as if it were an oracle.
“Do you think you’re going to need a second
“Why? Is Ira changing his mind?”
“I’ll talk to Ira. He’s not…above fear.”
When the mayor left, Gerry spoke to Glenda again, because that was one great thing about Neil’s attempt: With the holes in the phytosphere, the lines of communication were open again.
“It seems to be stalling,” she told him. “At least from what I can see in Old Hill.”
“Any sign of Maynard?”
“No. But Buzz drove by again.”
“I had some good times with Buzz. Except for Marblehill. Marblehill was a disaster.”
“I wish he’d stop driving by. He came by last night. I heard his truck a mile away.”
Ian came in a number of times and, surprisingly, he took only a few nips from his flask.
Gerry commented on it.
Ian motioned at the monitors. “All this…makes a man think. I always told myself I’d sober up by the end of it all. I’m cutting back as much as I can.”
Stephanie came to visit him.
The minute she saw the monitors she said, “It’s not working.” And it was funny because Stephanie, nothing more than a showgirl, seemed to cut through the crap better than anybody else. “We’ve got to come up with something different fast.”
He studied the monitors and realized Stephanie was right.
Each new seeding brought no more than a pinprick of deterioration, tiny points of stasis where the hydrogen sulfide was trying to gain a meager toehold. It was as if the phytosphere was now putting up its best guard against the attack.
He was with Stephanie when he first noticed a change around the existing holes. In infrared terms, it was manifested as a rim of yellow forming along the edges of the green, like the finger of God reaching out and breathing a new spring into the dormant foliage, yellow being an indicator of warmth, and therefore, of life.
His shoulders sank.
He showed Stephanie, and together they followed the growth for the next hour. He remembered the weeds in his Old Hill backyard, particularly the dandelions in spring; of how quickly his too-big lawn had been covered with a galaxy of ragged yellow stars, and how dozens of other green miscreants, genus unknown, had sprouted up between the patio stones and along the edges of the house. The phytosphere seemed vicious in its will to live. The yellow rims at the edges of the various holes seemed to pulsate as if with golden blood, and the holes themselves grew noticeably smaller. He took measurements, and electronically conveyed them to the mayor’s office, Mitch’s office, and even Ira’s office.
The measurements spoke for themselves.
Attitude had nothing to do with it.
20
Neil’s girls got up early at Homestead because they wanted to see the sunrise. Neil opened his eyes and watched them get ready at the sink. He would have smiled if the awful truth hadn’t been revealed to him last night in a special drop from the Moon.
And all the gunfire on the base last night. What had that been about?
He swung his feet out of the army cot he shared with Louise and glanced around their fairly large officers’ barracks. He heard the rise and fall of jet engines on the tarmac—pilots gearing up for maneuvers. His head pounded. A hangover, but not an alcohol hangover—a stress hangover. Because what was he going to do now? Develop a virus? A plant disease? But how? He wasn’t used to working like this, with scattered personnel and diminished resources. He was used to working with the full and generous backing of the United States government, and not in a place where
And now Gerry.
Telling him he had failed.
“Let’s see
“Huh?” said Louise.
“Are you going to get up and see the sunrise?” he asked.
This was their ritual now; sun worshippers, the lot of them.
“I’m thinking of painting the barracks. I’d like it yellow, Neil. See if you can convince Greg to get us some yellow paint.”
“Isn’t it enough he can feed us?”
She glanced at the girls. “Shall we let the girls go first?”
They hadn’t had sex in a while.
“I have a few things to talk to Greg about.”
“Yellow paint?”
He grinned. “Sure. Yellow paint.”
They all got dressed and had their rations, and went outside in their shorts and T-shirts and sandals because even at this time of morning it was sweltering. It was glorious to see the sun slanting through the morass of melting green xenophyta. The entire parade ground was alive with light and shadow.
“There’s Greg,” he said.
“You’re not telling me everything, are you?” said Louise.
He paused. “We’re going to be fine.”
“So can I come and talk to Greg with you?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
He moved off.
Colonel Gregory Bard was in uniform, but without his jacket. He was tall, and had pools of sweat soaking the armpits of his blue Air Force shirt. He was as skinny as everybody else. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as he approached Neil; that’s what Neil remembered about Greg from all those years ago when they had been in the Air Force together, that he always seemed like a man who knew secrets, or who was involved in conspiracies up to his eyeballs. Greg’s caginess dissolved as he watched the girls appreciate the sun. These girls. And Louise. In
