Phytosphere

sent us the blueprint for the virus, and Luke’s taken a look at it, and Luke seems to think it’s…how can I put this?…a kosher little bug and, unlike the toxin, something we can grow up here.”

“I thought Luke wasn’t part of our effort anymore.”

The mayor looked away. “We’ve kind of been using him all along. On a consulting basis…and keeping it hush-hush…because you seemed a little miffed at him when he broke camp with us.”

Gerry shook his head. “I wasn’t miffed at him. I welcome his input. I was mad at the toxin. I knew it wasn’t going to work. And I was right. These are the Tarsalans. They’re going to think of all the obvious things. And now Neil wants to try a virus? A virus won’t work for the exact same reason.”

“No, no…. Luke said it will. He said it will beat the crap out of the thing…. Maybe not in those exact words…” The door to the mayor’s office slid open. “And…well, well, well…speak of the devil…. Luke, we were just—”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Dr. Langstrom, coming through the door.

So. Here it was. The last nail. Why did things always arrange themselves this way in his life? Same thing at NCSU. Thought his job was safe, had no idea of the political intrigue brewing behind his back, and bang, we’re sorry, Dr. Thorndike, but the Ocean Sciences Department is in a precarious position right now, and yes, you’ve really bounced back since your unfortunate stay at Bellwood, but we’re looking at a serious lack of funding at the present time…and here it was all over again. Poor old Ger, only wanting to help, doing his damnedest to figure out Kafis’s little puzzle, and then having the rug pulled out from under him, and Langstrom bouncing through the door as if he belonged here more than Gerry did.

“Hello, Luke,” he said, trying to stop the frost in his voice.

The Martian scientist nodded deferentially. “Gerry.”

The mayor tried to alleviate the tension with some blustering hospitality. “Wish I had a plate of bonbons, or something, Luke, because I know you like your sweets… but we’re getting… uh… drastically low in the supply side of things, and we… you know… got a little hoarding going on… so I guess all I can give you…”

“Yes, crudites. Moon-grown?”

“We grow a fine carrot.”

“And the dip?”

“Uh… synthetic. But real low-cal. In fact, zero-cal.”

“You’re not insulted if I pass?”

“Me, insulted? No, of course not. Have a seat. There’s a spot beside Ira. You know Ira, don’t you?”

“Yes, we’ve met.”

“Hi, Luke.”

“Hello, Ira.”

“We were just telling Ger, here… about Dr. Thorndike’s virus.”

And this rankled Gerry as well, because he was “Ger” now, nothing else, while his brother was still Dr.

Thorndike. He watched Luke take his spot beside Ira.

Gerry glanced at Ira, a man in his early sixties with an odd birthmark on his right hand, a narrow face, intense blue eyes, a receding hairline, and an obvious Ashkenazi contour to his nose. He had a benign but nearly frozen grin on his face. What was Ira getting out of all this? What kind of tariff concessions had the U.S. government made to the lunar contingent of AviOrbit?

“I’ve developed a few vials of the virus according to Dr. Thorndike’s blueprint,” said Luke. “Lothar Hydroponics had the base tobacco mosaic virus on file. The Tarsalan components came from the Aldrin Health Sciences Center. The cross-species enzymes and catalysts were easy to synthesize using basic laboratory techniques. The beauty of this thing, Gerry, is that unlike the toxin, we can grow it here on the Moon. Kudos to your brother. We mount multiple warheads of the stuff on some of the old interlunar junk Ira has hanging around and we go in with a coordinated attack.”

The unfairness of the situation struck him afresh. “Wait a minute. Ira can give my brother launch vehicles but he can’t give me another Smallmouth?”

Ira’s grin transformed into a hard-faced frown. “It’s not that we can’t give you another Smallmouth, Gerry, it’s just that we don’t see the point. Mitch and I have talked about this, and we’ve basically concluded that your…research…Pardon me if I’m blunt, but your research is going nowhere.” He lifted his palms. “These flagella, for instance. Yes, the first Smallmouth has shown us that when they’re in the sphere, they’re active, and that they link each xenophyta organism to the next, but so what? And this expensive infrared equipment we’ve given you? What have you done with it? You’ve shown us some pretty colors and told us that the phytosphere has different temperatures in different places, and that there might be a cyclical weather system in it… but really, what have you given us in terms of a concrete scientific return, or even a first step toward a working solution?”

Gerry’s anger flared. “Yes, but this cyclical weather system… I’m beginning to think it’s more than just a weather system—it’s a definite stress band. Did you read my report on it?”

“You mean you’ve finally written a report?”

Gerry frowned but pushed on. “The pattern’s too regular to be a weather system. If we can figure out what’s causing it, we could be one step closer to a solution. I’m hypothesizing that the stress band could be part of the phytosphere’s operating system.”

“ Could be,” said Ira, now sounding tougher. “That’s all I hear from you, Gerry. I’ve been an executive for thirty-one years, and I’ve worked with all kinds of people. I’ve hired people, and I’ve fired people.

And the people I fire most are the ones who always say could be, might be, or maybe. Gerry, you don’t know how to get things done. Not like your brother does.”

“As far as I can see, my brother hasn’t accomplished a thing except spend a lot of money. All I’m asking for is one more Smallmouth. Let’s go into the phytosphere and follow the stress band. Let’s find out what it is. It might reveal the exact piece of information we need. We could have the answer in as little as seventy-two hours.”

“I’m sorry, Gerry, but I have to put what resources I have into retooling these old Earth-Lunar shuttles.”

“But the virus isn’t going to work. You don’t think the Tarsalans haven’t engineered an immune system into the phytosphere?”

“Gerry,” said Luke. “That’s the beauty of this virus your brother’s designed. It attacks the immune system. The Tarsalan genetic component. And it’s going to cripple that component first and then spread out using the omniphage I’ve created. This omniphage of mine is quickly turning into the workhorse of the whole project. The only way the Tarsalans can respond is to preemptively vaccinate the entire shroud, and hope that the necessary antibodies develop in time. And they can’t. It’s impossible. I’ve tested your brother’s virus. It’s a hundred percent effective.”

“You’ve tested it on our samples?”

Luke shrugged. “Where else would I get samples?”

“Yes, but you didn’t kill them all, did you?”

“I wouldn’t do that. In fact, I’m culturing a new supply.”

The rawhide hat moved ominously into view. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” said Ian. “You’re undercutting the only man who’s going to save the situation.”

“Give me another Smallmouth,” pleaded Gerry. “Let’s take an in-depth look at the stress band.”

The mayor interjected. “Ger, we’ve sent your research to… you know… to your brother’s team… just so that they can take a look at it. I think that’s all we really have to do. There’s your in-depth look, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Now he felt doubly betrayed. “Without my authorization?”

“We just want them to double-check its validity.”

His face settled. “It’s valid, Malcolm. It’s predicated on strict observation, not on wishful thinking.”

“We’re wasting a lot of time here,” said Ira. “We should be focusing on refurbishing our launch vehicles

and developing a stockpile of virus.” Ira squared his shoulders and turned to Gerry. “Gerry, you’re off the project. That’s what we’re really here to talk about. That’s why I’m here. Thanks for all your help, but it hasn’t worked out. We’ll let you know if we need you on a consulting basis.”