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?"