



                            Flowering Evil

                         by MARGARET ST. CLAIR

                Like all her other plants from far-off
              worlds, Aunt Amy hoped the Venusian Rambler
                  would win a prize. It hoped so too. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Summer 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Captain Bjornson shook a grizzled head. "I never saw a plant I liked
the looks of less," he said. "I don't know how he got it through the
planetary plant quarantine. You take my advice, Amy, and watch out for
it." He took another of the little geela nut cookies from the quaint
old lucite platter, and bit into it appreciatively. Mrs. Dinsmore sniffed, "I don't know what you're driving at," she said
coldly, "or why you're so prejudiced against my poor little Rambler. You know perfectly well that Robert would never send me anything the
least bit dangerous." Captain Bjornson paused with another cookie half-way to his lips and
looked at her. "Wouldn't send you anything dangerous!" he exclaimed. "Why, Amy, have you forgotten how your face was swelled up for two
weeks from that tree cutting he sent you? The doctor said it was a
contact poison worse than sumach, and he tried to get you to go to the
hospital. What about the time that cactus from the Blue Desert went
to seed, and I spent thirty-six hours picking spines out of you? What
about--" Mrs. Dinsmore gave a warning sniff. "Well, all right," Bjornson said. "I know how fond you are of Bob, and
I know you don't like me to mention his mistakes. I'll grant you he
means well. So what? He's flighty, scatter-brained, and brash. To use
an expression that was current when I was a boy, Bob is a twerp." Mrs. Dinsmore pulled the lucite platter so far over to her own side
of the table that Bjornson couldn't get another cookie from it
without getting up and stretching out along the table cloth. "I don't
agree with you," she said distantly. "Robert is a splendid fellow,
so thoughtful and considerate. He takes a real interest in my soap
carvings, and how many young men with an important position like his,
third mate on a space freighter with a regularly scheduled run, would
remember to send back plants from every port of call to an aunt on
earth? I shouldn't be surprised if I won a blue ribbon at the flower
show again this year; my Golden Rain plant is about to bloom. Robert
tells me it's a lovely thing." The captain cast a wistful look at the cookie plate. "Well, don't say I
didn't warn you," he replied. "When's Bob due in port?" Mrs. Dinsmore's face relaxed. "Around the twenty-fifth," she said, "he
sent me a 'gram. Here, have another cookie. I must think up some little
thing to cook for him as a surprise." The captain snaffled a handful of cookies from the plate and stood up
to go. "Your ordinary cooking's good enough for me," he declared, "but,
if you mean something like those little shrimps fried in batter you
had the last time he was here, go ahead. And watch for that plant." He
stalked off across the lawn. He's getting old, thought Amy Dinsmore, watching the gruff old codger
limp around a flower bed (Bjornson had had prosthetic surgery after he
lost his foot and, though it had been successful, grafts were never
as flexible as natural members), positively old. He ought to see a
geriatrician right away. She'd tell him so the next time he came to see
her. Talking about Robert that way! She set the dial on the robot gardener on the front lawn to "Weeding:
dandelions" and started along the path that led to the little hothouse
where most of the plants Robert had sent her were growing; even in
the deep tropics Terra was, with few exceptions, too cold and dry for
them. The Martian subjects, on the other hand, were in a psychroplex
lean-to, with hygro-scopes and a battery of infra-red lamps to keep the
temperature up during the day. The heavy moist air of the hothouse made Amy Dinsmore pant a little as
she entered it--but how _interesting_ it was! Even the leaves of her
Venusian plants were fascinating, thick and leatherlike, thin and dry
and hard like parchment, hanging in heavy serpentine coils or bristling
pointed and sharp as so many spears. And their coloring ranged from
cerise through a silky taupe and indigo around to an angry bright
metallic blue. As for their flowers--oh, my. Amy Dinsmore had never
seen anything like them. All you could do was stand in front of them
with your mouth open and stare. When she wasn't looking at her Martian
succulents, they were her favorites of anything she grew. She halted in front of the plant Robert had sent her last. Yes, Hjalmar
Bjornson was getting definitely senile. How could anybody think that
this poor little dried-up thing could be harmful? It was a mere bundle
of desiccated stems, with only a tiny new leaf or two to indicate that
it was alive. It looked a little better than it had yesterday, though;
the colchine solution must have been good for it. Amy brushed a few
dead flies from the ledge behind it into her hand and threw them into
the composter. She liked to have things neat. Now, what should she cook as a surprise for Robert? He was fond of
sweet things, of course, but it always seemed to her that he praised
her meat dishes and entrees most. He liked her cooking so much
because her roast turkeys and grilled steaks had a crust on them;
electronically cooked food was quick to prepare and it might be as good
for you as they said it was, but the outside looked like the inside,
and it all tasted flavorless and grey. What was the use of saving time
in cooking if you ended up with food that wasn't any fun to eat? *       *       *       *       *

"You aren't looking well, Amy," Captain Bjornson said three or four
weeks later. He looked at her with the critical attention of an old
friend. "You've got on a lot of cosmi-lac, but you still look peaked. What's the matter, worried about Bob? Ships don't get hurt in meteor
swarms any more." He looked down at his grafted foot reminiscently. "Not like it was when _I_ was a third mate." Amy Dinsmore shook her head. She picked up one of the brightly-colored
hexagons--they had been playing a desultory game of Maroola in the airy
coolness of the side stoa--and fiddled with it. "I haven't been sleeping well," she confessed at last. "I've had such
unpleasant dreams. Horrid things." "What about?" Bjornson asked. "That blasted plant? Honestly, Amy, it
looks like some kind of spider to me." "No! I don't know why you can't leave my Venusian Rambler alone! Robert
told me it was a very valuable plant, rare even in its own habitat. It's doing so nicely, too. A spider! I wish you'd stop trying to spoil
it for me." "I'm sorry," Bjornson apologized. "Forget it. Go on, tell me about your
dreams."