Graves, the manager of T. P.'s branch upon the planet Deka—planetographically speaking, Dekanore III—was a short, fat man; and he possessed, upon the surface at least, the fat man's proverbial geniality and good nature.
"Mr. Graves—Dr. Stonely."
"Mighty glad to meet you, Doctor," Graves shook hands effusively. "Splendid accomplishment. You've been working on it five years or more, I hear."
"Six years and two months," the scientist said precisely.
"I cannot accompany you, of course," the vice-president interposed busily, "and you appreciate that the less of communication or contact hereafter, the better. Good day."
The two went out, took a cab, and soon were in Dr. Stonely's ultra-private laboratory. It was a large room, artificially lighted, lined throughout with sheet metal—metal which, when properly charged, formed a barrier through which no harmful radiation or particle could pass. The scientist snapped on the wall shield and set to work, explaining each step to his visitor.
"Here are the seeds. For the present you will have to take my word for it that I produced them here. I will go through as many cycles as you please. Here are the containers—miniatures, you will observe, of the standard hydroponics tanks. The formula of the nutrient solution, while of course crucial, contains nothing either rare or unduly expensive. I plant the seed, thus, in each of the two tanks. I cover each with a bell-jar of plastic—transparent to the frequencies to be employed. I enclose the whole with a similar envelope—so. I align the projectors—thus. We will now put on our armor, as the radiation is severe and the atmosphere, which displaces our own of oxygen—"
"Synthetic or imported?" Graves asked.
"Imported. Synthesis is possible, but prohibitive in cost. Importation in tank ships is easy, simple, and comparatively cheap. I will now energize the projectors, and growth will begin."