Growing Season
BY F. L. WALLACE
Why would anyone want to kill a tender
of mechanized vegetation—with, of all
things, a watch and a little red bird?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The furry little animal edged cautiously toward him, ready to scamper up a tree. But the kernel on the ground was tempting and the animal grabbed it and scurried back to safety. Richel Alsint sat motionless, enjoying himself greatly.
Outside the park in every direction were many tiers of traffic. He was the only person in the park; it was silent there except for birds. One in particular he noticed, all body, or entirely wing—it was impossible to say which at this distance—soared effortlessly overhead, a small bundle of bright blue feathers. The wings, if it had wings, didn't move at all; the bird balanced with remarkable skill on air currents. Everything about it might be small, but the voice wasn't, and it made good use of every note.
Alsint twisted his hand slowly toward the sack beside him.
In that position the ship watch was visible. There was no need to look; it was connected to the propulsion processes of the ship and would signal long before he had to be back. Nevertheless he did glance at it.