"Sad, very sad," Carver said. "But surely some form of intensive fertilization—"
"Everything has been tried."
"I realize," Carver said earnestly, "how important the sersee juice is to you. But if you could give us a little—even a pint or two—we could take it to Earth, have it examined, synthesized, perhaps. Then you could have all you need."
"But we dare not give any. Have you noticed how few children we have?"
Carver nodded.
"There are very few births. Our life is a constant struggle against the obliteration of our race. Every man's life must be preserved until there is a child to replace him. And this can be done only by our constant and never-ending search for the sersee berries. And there are never enough," the medicine man sighed. "Never enough."
"Does the juice cure everything?" Fred asked.
"It does more than that. Those who have tasted sersee add fifty of our years to their lives."
Carver opened his eyes wide. Fifty years on Loray was roughly the equivalent of sixty-three on Earth.
The sersee was more than a healing agent, more than a regenerator. It was a longevity drug as well.