"No," said Calvin, and all at once, like light breaking at last into the dark cave of his being, in this twelfth hour, it came to him—all of what he had robbed himself in his search for a victory. Choking on a wave, he clung to the plant with frenzied strength. "Nothing!" The word came torn from him as if by some ruthless hand. "I've got nothing!"
"Then I understand at last," said the plant. "For of all things, the most terrible is to die unfruitful. It is no good to say we will not be beaten, because there is always waiting, somewhere, that which can beat us. And then a life that is seedless goes down to defeat finally and forever. But when one has seeded, there is no ending of the battle, and life mounts on life until the light is reached by those far generations in which we have had our own small but necessary part. Then our personal defeat has been nothing, for though we died, we are still living, and though we fell, we conquered."
But Calvin, clinging to the plant with both arms, saw only the water closing over him.
"Too late—" he choked. "Too late—too late—"
"No," bubbled the plant. "Not too late yet. This changes things. For I have seeded ten times and passed on my life. But you—I did not understand. I did not realize your need."
The flood, cresting, ran clear and strong, the waves breaking heavily on the drowned shore by the river mouth. The rescue spinner, two hours out of Base and descending once again through the fleeting murk, checked at the sight of a begrimed human figure, staggering along the slick margin of the shore, carrying something large and limp under one arm, and with the other arm poking at the ground with a stick.
The spinner came down almost on top of him, and the two men in it reached to catch Calvin. He could hardly stand, let alone stumble forward, but stumble he did.
"Cal!" said the pilot. "Hold up! It's us."
"Let go," said Calvin thickly. He pulled loose, dug with his stick, dropped something from the limp thing into the hole he had made, and moved on.