Part 2

"Don't lie to me," blazed the skipper. "I heard what you was talkin' about. _So_, Lancelot! It was _you_ tooken that container of seeds out of the cargo!"

Biggs said, "Why, yes, Captain, but--"

The Old Man suddenly remembered he was Lancelot Biggs' father-in-law as well as his chief. His face wrinkled like a prune, and he said in a melancholy voice, "Now, son, you shouldn't ought to have done that. Don't you know you're goin' to get in a peck of trouble? Them seeds was valuable."

"I know," replied Biggs, "but I just took a few seeds out of one of the containers. Nobody will ever notice. And--and it was our anniversary, you know. Diane's and mine."

The Old Man shook his head sadly.

"Lancelot, I'm surprised at you. Just took a few out of one of the containers? Don't you realize that whole box of seeds is ruined now? Why do you think they sealed them things in lead?"

Oh-oh! Suddenly, but belatedly, I knew what he meant. So did Biggs. The two of us stared at Hanson, then at each other haggardly.

Lancelot whispered, "Cosmic rays? Oh, my gracious! I forgot all about--"

"Sure, cosmic rays," groaned the Old Man. "You know they create mutants in dormant germinating cells. Now that them seeds been exposed they ain't worth a tinker's dam to anybody. They won't breed true. Lord only knows what kind of freaks and fiddle-di-diddles'll come up--if anything comes up at all." And he shook his head. "Lancelot, son, I'm sorry. But you know what I'm goin' to have to do. I'm goin' to have to enter this on the ship's log, and--and I'm afraid them seeds may cost you your job!"

* * * * *

It was just at that moment the _vocoder_ on my set began chattering. The interruption suited me fine. I leaped to the controls and hastily tuned in my caller. But whatever pleasure I had felt dissipated instantly when I learned who he was and what he wanted. It was Tommy Jenkins, the bug-pounder at Ganymede IV, space-calling in Compang code.

He asked, "That you, Donovan?"

"It's not my grandmother," I retorted. "Why the Code, Tommy? What's up?"

"Taxes," said Jenkins, "skirt-lengths, and the Big Chief's blood pressure. Sparks, how far are you from Iapetus?"

I checked traj swiftly on my flight record. "About fifteen hours," I answered. "Twelve, maybe. Why?"

"Well, you'd better make it ten. Because we just got word the Cosmic Corporation freighter _Gemini_ is closing in on Yappy with exactly the same thing you're carrying--a cargo of flower seeds! Orders are to beat them there at all costs. That is all. _Salujo!_" And he signed off.

I turned to the Old Man. "You heard that, Skipper?"

His face was the color of a 'dobe hut.

"I heard it," he croaked feebly, and stared at Biggs with lacklustre eyes. "Trouble, trouble; nothin' but trouble! Lanse, is there anything we can do to speed up a little?"

Biggs shook his head. "No," he groaned. "We're spinning the V-I unit almost at maximum acceleration now--185,000 plus. If we boost it any higher we're taking chances. We may exceed the limiting velocity of light and lose ourselves in the negative universe like we did once before." A sudden anger disturbed his usual calm complacency. "If we lose this race," he stormed, "the Company has nobody to blame but itself! _They_ merchandised the V-I unit and made it available to every ship in space. Still--we must beat the C.C. to Iapetus, even if we have to take chances."

He turned to me suddenly. "Sparks, call Jenkins again. See if you can get an exact locus on the _Gemini_."

I did so. A few minutes later Biggs was seated at my plot table, anxiously scanning the course trajectories of both their ship and ours, reeling off involved and typically Biggsian mathematics that would have warped the gears of a calculating machine. The creases on his brow etched deeper as his columns of figures grew longer. Finally he stopped scribbling, lifted his head.

"Well?" asked the Old Man with bated breath. "What's the answer, son?"

"It's close," Biggs told us. "Perilously close. As near as I can figure, it's a nip and tuck race. They started later than we did, but their point of departure was nearer our mutual goal. From the viewpoint of distance alone, they should drop gravs on Iapetus one hour before we do."

* * * * *

Hanson groaned. "Licked again!"

"No," said Biggs. "Not quite. There's one thing which may save us. Iapetus' diurnal revolution. It's not simply a matter of _reaching_ the satellite. They must actually beat us to the mining city. If their calculators have figured _our_ position as we have figured _theirs_, they may be overconfident and think they've licked us just because they have an hour's advantage. And--this is risky, Cap, but--"

"Go on!" said the Old Man with rising excitement. Risks don't scare him. Danger is his bread and butter. "Go on!"

"If we can hold the velocity-intensifier in operation until just before we effect landing, we'll drop to normal acceleration right smack over that sector of Iapetus where the mines are, thus cancelling the sixty-odd minutes of stratosphere cruise the _Gemini_ will have to make--and dropping us into the cradles at practically the same moment."

"If that happens," I broke in, "who gets the contract, Cap? Is there any provision for deadlock in the Space Regulations?"

The Skipper fumbled with the loose-leaf pages of his memory.

"Yeah," he finally decided, "there is. The Interplanetary Commerce Code rules that whenever two companies effect a simultaneous landing, their product shall be offered the governing board of the newly opened territory in direct competition."

I snorted loudly. "A hell of a lot of good that does us! It'll be a matter of choosing seeds against seeds. And if I know those Cosmic Corporation crooks, they'll bribe the Iapetus governing board blue in the face."

"Wait!" cried Biggs. "It may not be seeds against seeds. It may be seeds against--flowers!"

"Huh!" gasped the Old Man. "What was that, boy?"

"My ... er ... horticultural experiment," said Lancelot. "By the time we arrive there--perhaps by _now_--we may actually have flowers to show them. Exhibit A of the sort of thing our seeds will produce. It should provide a clinching argument."

Hanson stared at him bewilderedly. "You mean them seeds you swiped are growing flowers in three days?"

"That's what I hope," nodded Biggs. "Let's find out. Come down to my growth chamber and we'll see."

We needed no second invitation. In minus zero seconds the three of us were galloping down the ramp to the room wherein Lancelot Biggs had installed his hydroponic tank. We waited breathlessly as he fumbled with the lock ... then gasped and choked as the door opened and a steamy mist gushed out to smack us in the pans with an almost ponderable force. Then regardless of the heat the three of us were crowding into the narrow cubicle and--

[Illustration: A welter of tropic growths tumbled out of the door.]

"Great snakes!" I gasped.

"Good goddlemitey!" croaked Cap Hanson.

"Oh, my gracious!" bleated Biggs.

For we had stepped not into the metal chamber of a space-craft bunkroom--but into what seemed the foetid fen of some steamy swampland jungle!

* * * * *

It's hard to describe what that room looked like. Imagine a Gauguin painting come to life ... a tropical hothouse gone berserk. That gives you some idea.

The original tank wherein Biggs had sprinkled the rose seeds was completely invisible, submerged beneath a crawling octopus of greenery. Writhing fronds spewed from the container to twist in tumultuous entanglement beneath our feet ... up the walls ... across the ceiling. Twining and spiraling around every piece of furniture, every bracket, any support to which suckered tendrils could cling. A heady perfume thickened the air; perfume from monstrous growths that no more resembled a rose than _I_ look like a wasteland Martian.

Cap Hanson had been right. The action of cosmic rays had done weird things to those original germ cells.[4] _Rosa rugosa_ had--figuratively and literally--gone crazy with the heat waves. Here triple-headed roses with spiny petals reared themselves awkwardly out of thick spongy, palmate foliage ... there a pinkish, cactus-like rose-thing clung tenaciously to a table leg ... elsewhere gossamer-fine, lavender petals, propelled by stirring gusts of air, drifted lazily across the room toward us, dangling epiphytic roots.

[Footnote 4: Science has already discovered that the bombardment of cosmic rays is at least partially responsible for the creation of "freaks," "sports," or "mutants," in both the animal and vegetable world. Life on atmosphere-blanketed planets is not subject to this bombardment, because of the protective Heaviside energy layer ... but space-craft must be carefully shielded from such radiation.--ED.]

It was a startling exhibition of Mama Nature gone nuts! Only in two respects did these fantastic creations resemble the roses from which they were mutant. Each variation had thorns--as we discovered painfully when we tried to walk amongst them--and all had some shade or tint or hue of the fundamental red rose whence they had sprung.

Cap Hanson groaned, "Oh, my golly, what a mess! Of all the--Hey, let me out of here! Whatever's goin' on, it's gettin' _us_, too! Your faces!"

Biggs cracked indigo lips in what was supposed to be a placating grin but looked more like a hungry pitcher-plant licking its chops. He said, "The color means nothing, Captain. It's just a matter of light refraction."

"Which doesn't alter the fact," I reminded him, "that the experiment's a flop, Lanse, old boy. I--I guess we might as well call it quits. Clean this mess up and throw it away. We can't show this stuff to the Iapetus board. They'd toss us out on our necks."

Biggs nodded dolefully. "I guess you're right, Sparks. This is a bitter disappointment. I did _so_ want to surprise her."

"Her?" grunted Hanson. "The Board's made up of hims."

"I mean," wailed Biggs plaintively, "Diane. Now she won't get her anniversary corsage...."

* * * * *

So that was that. The Skipper went back to the bridge to give our second in command, Lieutenant Dick Todd, the necessary trajectory instructions, and I stuck around, sweating and swearing, to help Biggs clean up the aboriginal morass he had created with his experiment. It was tough going, too. Like I said before, those roses had thorns. By the time we got done, our fingers looked like First Prize in a needlework exhibit.

It was just as we were finishing and Biggs was draining the final rugose drops of fluid from his tank that he loosed a little yelp of excitement.

"Sparks!"

"Now what?" I asked. "If it's another experiment--"

"Look! This one bred true in spite of the cosmic rays." And with quivering fingers he held up for my inspection one tiny bud which had been nestling coyly in a corner of the tank. A small but perfectly formed, brilliantly scarlet rosebud!

Well, I guess it was the irony of it that got me. I stared at the poor, pathetic, bedraggled little thing for a minute, then I chuckled.

"Well, there's the love song you were looking for, Biggs."

"Eh? What's that?"

"When you give her that bud," I told him, "you can say to her, '_Roses are red, violets are blue; the rest went whacky, but this one grew_'."

Biggs said defensively, "Well, anyhow, this proves my theory about growth stimulation was right. It may not work in open space, but it will work on a planet where there are atmosphere blankets against cosmic ray penetration. And Diane _will_ get one rose."

And with painstaking care he transferred the bud to a glass of water. Poor little pitiful symbol of a noble experiment which flopped.

* * * * *

And that was all until ten hours later. It's a shame to gloss over the excitement of those next ten hours, but it was mostly technical stuff you Earth-lubbers wouldn't understand.

The main point is that, though as a botanist Lancelot Biggs may be a bum Burbank, as an astrogator he is in a class by himself. His computations proved correct to four decimal places. We held the _Saturn_ on the V-I unit until we were so close to Iapetus that the permalloy walls of our space-freighter started humming with tropospheric pressure, then released to normal acceleration, and--_bingo!_ There we were, smack-dab over the new and as yet unnamed mining town. Just as Biggs had predicted.

Our appearance out of seemingly thin air--you understand what I mean if you know how the velocity-intensifier works--not only created a sensation on Iapetus; it darned near created an accident in our little segment of atmosphere. For when we switched over we found ourselves not more than a quarter mile from the Cosmic Corporation's _Gemini_, which had been easing into Iapetus complacently unaware that _we_ were within several thousand miles.

Instantly there was hectic excitement upon both ships. Landing rocket jets flared, grav clamps growled, and the two of us hurtled groundward like brickbats.

It was a photo finish. We nosed into one cradle just as they stern-jetted into a second. And just as Cap Hanson leaped from _our_ airlock, the _Gemini's_ skipper burst from theirs.

Hanson bawled, "IPS-freighter-_Saturn_-landing-with-a-cargo-of-flower-seeds--"

His competitor screamed, "CC-freighter-_Gemini_-claiming-priority-on--"

But neither of them got to first base. A representative of the Iapetus colonists came to each ship, and the messages they delivered were identical.

"The governing board has decided that landings were effected simultaneously. Consequently you will present all wares for decision in open competition. Please report immediately to the general offices."

* * * * *

So there we were, a few minutes later, standing in the council room of the Iapetus governing board; Cap Hanson, Lancelot Biggs, Diane, and myself, glaring angrily across the room at representatives from our competitor space-craft, the _Gemini_. _Gemini_ means "twins," which in this case was right, because the glares Cap Hanson and Cap Murgatroyd were hurling at each other were Siamese.

The Iapetus governor, an Earthman named Larrabee--said quietly, "Gentlemen, welcome to our new colony. Now ... I believe you each carry cargoes on which you wish to claim commercial priorities for your respective companies? Will you be kind enough to declare the nature of these cargoes?"

"Mine," said Cap Hanson loudly, "is flower seeds." And scowled at Murgatroyd.

"Mine," said Murgatroyd loudly, "is flower seeds." And scowled at Cap Hanson.

The Iapetus governor stroked his jaw thoughtfully.

"This is a delicate situation, gentlemen. You both carry a cargo our colonists will receive eagerly. It may be rather difficult to decide which of you--but I must let you present your own cases. What types of flowers are you carrying?"

"Roses," declared Cap Hanson defiantly. "Eighteen varieties of roses, includin' the rare, perennial Venusian swamp-rose."

"I see. And you, Captain Murgatroyd?"

"Thirty-four separate and distinct varieties of flowering plants," declared our opponent triumphantly, "including roses, geraniums, nasturtiums, pinks ... practically everything, sir!"

"Ah, yes. That seems to be a point in your favor, Captain Murgatroyd. Now--the size of your cargoes--?"

"Five hundred lead-sealed ten-bushel containers," gloated Captain Murgatroyd.

"Very good. And you, Captain Hanson?"

"The IPS," snarled the Old Man, "don't go in for samples! When we carry a cargo, we carry a cargo. Twelve hundred lead-sealed ten-bushel containers, Your Honor!"

"Excellent! Excellent, Captain! That seems to be a point in _your_ favor. This is most difficult. Er ... Captain Murgatroyd ... perhaps you could give us some idea as to the growth potentialities of your flowers?"

Murgatroyd grinned and dug into an inner pocket, brought forth a folder which he placed in the Governor's hands.

"Yes, sir. Here is a four-color brochure issued by our Company, describing each and every type of plant we have brought to Iapetus, and reproducing pictures of those flowers in full natural color."

* * * * *

The Governor shook out the papers, and my heart played tag with my shoestrings. The CC's publicity department had done a magnificent job. Those natural color photographs were luscious enough to make the mouth of the rankest amateur gardener water. Gay yellows and soft blues ... brilliant splotches of crimson ... dainty, sunny marigolds ... shy nodding violets ... that pamphlet was a tempting hunk of stuff.

But I had been wrong in thinking the Governor of Iapetus could be bribed. He was an honest man. He turned to Cap Hanson.

"And you, Captain? Have you a similar brochure?"

The Old Man scrubbed his jaw feebly. "Why ... er ... the truth is, Your Honor--" he began.

It was then Lancelot Biggs stepped forward, interrupting the skipper.

"The truth is, Governor," he said blandly, "_our_ Company does not depend on printed booklets to sell its products. There is, you surely realize, a certain amount of artistic falsification--or should I simply call it 'artistic license'?--employed in reproducing facsimiles of living objects. Therefore, in order to sell _our_ goods we always attempt to offer a living example of our product.

"I have here--" He dug into his jacket pocket and brought forth a bulging waxine envelope--"the bud of one of our most gorgeous blooms, the famous _Rosa rugosa_. You can see for yourself--"

With the look of a proud papa he opened the flap of the envelope, started to withdraw his single rosebud, and--stopped suddenly. A look of startled alarm drained his face of all color. He whispered, "But--but this--"

"Go on, lad," prodded the Old Man. "Show 'em. You got a bud there, ain't you? Well, show 'em."

But Biggs didn't show 'em. Instead, he closed the envelope again, slipped it back into his coat pocket, and his liquescent larynx bobbled frantically as he said,

"I--I'm sorry, gentlemen. I haven't anything to show you."

"Why?" I demanded. "Lanse, for gosh sakes, _why_? What's happened to--"

He turned to me haggardly. "The bud--" he choked--"_died_!"

* * * * *

Well, I'll hand it to that Governor. He was not only honest; he was so fair and square you could have used him for a measuring rod. He said consolingly, "That's too bad, Mr. Biggs. But accidents will happen. Is there anything further you have to say on behalf of your product?"

"I got plenty to say!" stormed the Skipper. "Just on account of one bud died don't mean we ain't got--"

"Excuse me, Skipper," interrupted Lancelot Biggs mildly. "I--I think the time for deceit has passed."

"_What!_ What's that?"

"I think the governor should be told the truth," said Biggs. "We should confess that our seeds are not a first class product. Might not, indeed, even flourish in the soil of Iapetus."

"Lanse!" I cried. "Do you know what you're saying? Don't talk like that!"

"Yes, Governor," nodded Lancelot Biggs sorrowfully, "I'm afraid that's true. Your colony wouldn't want our seeds. For one thing, they're all roses. The Cosmic Corporation offers you all kinds of flowers. For another thing, our seeds are not particularly hardy. Furthermore, I'm afraid a number of them were spoiled in transit when the leaden containers were broken, allowing cosmic rays to seep in--"

"_Biggs!_" howled Cap Hanson. "Shut up this minute an' get out of here! What do you mean by tellin' lies like that? A number of our containers? It was only _one_ container, and--"

The Governor interrupted him with a smooth lift of the hand.

"Never mind, Captain Hanson. We understand. Er ... thank you, Mr. Biggs, for your frank statement. Gentlemen of the Council, you have reached a decision? Yes, I thought so.

"Captain Murgatroyd, it gives me great pleasure to award you, on behalf of the Iapetus Governing Board, full priority rights to the flower-seed concession on our new colony, as set forth in Rule 14, Paragraph--"

"_Ruined!_" wailed Cap Hanson. "Sabotaged by a wolf in cheap clothing! Diane, why did you ever marry that falsifying, good for nothin'--"

He broke down. We led him, babbling incoherently, back to the ship.

* * * * *

But there, Diane, who had held up nobly throughout the proceedings, turned to her husband curiously.

"Lanse, dear, you know I've always backed you up in everything you've done, but--but why did you do this? Don't you know the loss of this monopoly will cost the Company millions, and may cost Daddy his job?"

Lanse nodded. "Yes, I know that would be true, dear ... if there were not other factors involved."

Cap Hanson lifted his head drearily.

"Other factors?"

"Yes, Skipper. Something amazing has happened. Something so incredible that even yet I can scarcely credit it. It all turns about something Sparks said--"

"Who, me?" I gulped. "Now, don't drag _me_ into this."

"You remember that ... er ... love song you suggested to me?" queried Biggs.

I nodded glumly. "Sure. '_Roses are red, violets are blue, the rest went whacky_--'"

"But this one--" finished Lancelot Biggs triumphantly--"is _blue_!"

And dramatically he drew from its waxine envelope the rosebud he had refused to show the Iapetus Governor, tossed it on the table before us. We all stared at it in gasping bewilderment. For he was right. That tiny rosebud was a brilliant, penetrating, heavenly, _cobalt blue_!

Cap Hanson choked, "But--but a blue rose! I never seen such a thing before!"

"Neither," crowed Biggs, "has anyone else. But flower-lovers have dreamed of them for centuries.[5] Hundreds of thousands of dollars--perhaps millions--have been spent by botanists in an effort to create that rare, often wished for but never accomplished example of beauty, the blue rose. A fortune awaits the first man to put such a thing on the market. And by luck we have done it!"

[Footnote 5: "Although the attempt has often been made to produce a blue rose, no one has ever succeeded.... The reason a blue rose has never been produced is that blue has never arisen spontaneously in the Genus _Rosa_, and no blue flower of another genus has ever been found that will ... transfer its blue color to the latter. A breeder who could do this would ... make a fortune." Gager: _The Plant World_.--ED.]

"You--you mean people will _buy_ this thing?"

"From now," declared Biggs, "until the end of time! This single mutant will parent a whole new breed of blue roses, and botanists throughout the entire solar system will mortgage their hothouses to buy slips from this parent plant.

"Now you see why I couldn't show it to the governor, I couldn't risk letting the secret get out until we had taken the bud back to Earth, patented it in the name of the IPS.

"Incidentally--" He coughed delicately--"our Company should be very pleased. I think we may anticipate a considerable bonus for our part in creating this new species."

* * * * *

I said, "But, hey--wait a minute! There's something wrong somewhere. I seen that bud before. But when I did, it wasn't blue! It was as red as an old maid's face at a strip-tease!"

"_Looked_ red, you mean," corrected Biggs. "Not _was_ red. That was a matter of color reflection, Sparks, caused by the Hertzian ray lamp I had installed in the laboratory. You will remember our faces were green, our lips purplish. You see, color is a tricky thing. For instance, when you see a green leaf, what color is that leaf?"

"Why, you just said. Green, of course."

"Ah, no!" said Biggs. "It is _every color but green_! Colors by which we designate objects are _not_ their true colors. Quite the reverse. They are the colors those objects reflect.[6] Under the Hertzian wave this precious bud--" He caressed it fondly--"apparently reflected all colors save red. We therefore thought it a normal red rose. But now that we see it under ordinary light, we realize it absorbs the red range as well as all others save the blue."